


Time's Wingèd Chariot

by Yassandra



Category: Atlantis (UK TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Community: smallfandombang, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Some Swearing, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 18:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10622511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yassandra/pseuds/Yassandra
Summary: Jason knew he was ill before he ever arrived in Atlantis - knew that he was dying - but since arriving there he hasn't really felt ill. When things start to go wrong though and he suddenly finds himself getting much worse, how will the people that know and love him best react to the news? And just how far will they all go to save his life - whether Jason wants it or not?





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> This has been written for round six of the Small Fandoms Big Bang, and also for Hurt/Comfort Bingo for the 'sacrifice' prompt. It also fills the following prompt on the Atlantis Bucket List: "The reason Jason keeps risking his life (taking the sub down, taking the black stone…) is that he’s already dying (of cancer or something)".
> 
> Please go and check out the lovely artwork by Knowmefirst [here](https://knowmefirst.dreamwidth.org/176996.html) and give the artist some appreciation too :-)
> 
> The art is integrated into the fic.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 _But at my back I always hear_  
_Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;_  
 _And yonder all before us lie_  
 _Deserts of vast eternity._

_(Andrew Marvel – To His Coy Mistress)_

 

The day that they tell Jason he’s dying it comes as a bit of a shock.

It was never supposed to be this way, of course, and at first he tells himself that maybe, just maybe, they’ve made a mistake and got him mixed up with someone else; that they’re looking at someone else’s results from the battery of tests they’ve put him through.

It started on a Thursday. Or maybe not. Maybe it actually started well before that with something so innocuous that his mind can’t quite remember what or when. He doesn’t suppose it matters all that much. Only, it does matter. It matters very much because those first moments when someone noticed something was wrong have marked the course of his future – or lack of future, as the case may be.

It started in the library at the uni with the dust from the reserve collection irritating the back of his throat. He’d had an annoying cough that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere for a while if he was honest; had decided it was just one of those winter bugs that was doing the rounds even though he hadn’t actually felt ill with it.

He wasn’t really supposed to be in the uni library – had graduated quite some time ago – but he’s sort of made friends with the librarian who looks after the reserve collection and the rare books so she lets him slip in whenever he wants to do a bit of research on whatever site he’s supposed to be working on; turns a blind eye to his presence and he never takes the piss by messing anything up or being there too often.

This time it’s a site in the Mediterranean that Mac’s ultra-keen on. There’s a particular book he wanted to consult for a bit of background so Jason was dispatched to go and do the research while he’s away drumming up the financial support for a trip. Jason doesn’t mind to be honest; as Mac’s site supervisor, a role Jason knows he is distinctly young for (it’s caused a bit of friction with some of the older guys Mac’s brought on board on sites in the past), it’s sort of his job.

Mac’s intending to sail out to the Med sometime in May (or at least that’s what he’s suggested to Jason) and spending at least a month or two out there. Jason’s looking forwards to it, not least because winter seems to have gone on forever this year and the thought of a couple of months in the sun is definitely attractive (even if he will be working).

So it was that on a grey and drizzly Thursday in late February he had plodded miserably up the steps to the front door of the library ready to start another day of research on Mac’s behalf and more than ready to get into the warm. It had been dry when he left home so he hadn’t bothered with an umbrella – something he now bitterly regretted. It might have only been drizzle but it had soaked through his jeans, and his dark curls, now plastered to his head, dripped water down the back of his neck.

It was early – not long after the library had opened for the day – too early for most of the students on campus to be up (and Jason should know – he’d been one of them not so long ago after all). He had slipped in through the front doors, trainers squeaking on the tiled floor of the entrance, his jacket pulled around himself in a vain attempt to find a bit of extra warmth in it, and made his way rapidly towards the reserve collection – the bit of the library most of the undergrads would never enter.

He was cold and damp and wishing he was somewhere far away – somewhere hot and sunny with a nice beach for preference. He’d had a chest infection at the start of winter that seemed to take an age (and more than one course of antibiotics) to go away and he’d been feeling distinctly tired and a bit run down ever since – although he had put it down to the miserable weather getting him down and depressing him a bit.

Sarah, the librarian, had rolled her eyes and made some comment about him looking like a drowned rat, but she’d also invited him into her office for a cuppa and a warm in front of the small heater she had tucked away in there before he started on his research for the day. Jason had gratefully accepted. She’d had a bit of a soft spot for him ever since he’d wandered into her domain as an undergrad looking for a specific book for his dissertation. As a rule she didn’t see all that many undergraduates in the reserve and special collection – most of them would simply have no need to be there at their level of study; she tended to deal mostly with postgrads and the faculty.

Jason had settled down to work once he had finished his tea. He had found the book he was looking for with a little help and settled down at one of the study carrels to read, pulling a slightly damp notebook out of his backpack and starting making notes with a biro. Something had been irritating the back of his throat though and every so often he had given a deep hacking cough.

Finally, Sarah had wandered over.

“You want to get that looked at,” she had said.

Jason had looked up, startled. He had been deeply engrossed in his work and not paying attention to his surroundings, so hadn’t heard her approach.

“What?” he had asked in confusion.

“That cough. You’ve had it for weeks. Every time you come in here it’s cough, cough, cough.”

Jason had frowned.

“I’m fine,” he had replied, a little dismissively. “It’s just the dust in here.”

As it turned out, Sarah had been a bit offended by that (which had never been Jason’s intention). She had pointed out (rather stridently) that the library was hoovered every night and she wouldn’t have tolerated dust on _her_ books, thank you very much.

Jason had been quick to apologise, not wanting to upset a woman who he considered to be almost a friend (and, if he was honest with himself, not wanting to risk losing his access to the uni library given that he didn’t really have right to be there).

“You want to get yourself to the doctor’s,” Sarah had sniffed, still a little huffy.

Jason had opened his mouth to respond but had been cut off by another coughing fit that had left him breathless. Sarah had tutted and disappeared to fetch a glass of water (although she had made sure to move any books over onto the next carrel to avoid the chance of accidental spillages) muttering under her breath about stubborn young men who didn’t seem to be able to look after themselves as she went.

As the coughing had subsided, Jason had taken his hand away from his mouth. It had felt a little damp (which in itself was fairly gross) and he had moved to surreptitiously wipe it on his jeans, knowing that he didn’t have a hankie.

“That’s disgusting,” Sarah had declared, handing him a tissue. She peered more closely at the hand he was wiping off. “Wait… is that blood?”

Jason had glanced at his hand. Sure enough there had been a faint red spray on his palm. He had quickly wiped it away on the tissue.

“It’s fine,” he had asserted.

Sarah had stared at him incredulously.

“Coughing up blood is _not_ fine,” she had hissed. “For two pins I’d load you into my car and take you to A  & E.”

“There’s no need for that,” Jason had objected. He had sighed. “I popped a blood vessel in the back of my throat when I was coughing the other night. I guess I’ve just set it off again.”

Sarah had still not looked happy. Jason had had to promise her faithfully that he would take the next available appointment at his GPs before she was pacified. Even then he had caught her staring at him through narrowed eyes whenever he had so much as thought of coughing. Consequently he hadn’t really been able to settle into the research that Mac had asked him to do and had ended up leaving most of it for another day.

He had been certain that the GP would just say it was a bug, or perhaps another chest infection. What he hadn’t been expecting was for the doctor to take it deadly seriously and send him to the hospital for a whole barrage of tests that had taken weeks to complete. Fortunately perhaps, Mac was still flitting in and out arranging funding and equipment, so Jason had managed to fit in all the various appointments and still complete any and all work that Mac wanted without letting the man know precisely what was going on. It wasn’t so much that he was keeping it a secret, it was more that he was sticking his own head in the sand and hoping it would all just go away.

That was, of course, what had brought him back to the hospital today – to finally receive the results from the battery of tests.

Even after having so many unexpected tests though, Jason still isn’t expecting the news. The consultant sits across from him and explains in no uncertain terms that although there are treatments they can do that may give him a little more time, they’ve caught the disease too late to actually cure it; that Jason is living on borrowed time.

It’s all so bloody unfair; there’s still so much that he wants to do – so much that he’s never had time for. The consultant keeps talking about different options for treatment but Jason is still reeling – still completely off balance – and isn’t really taking anything in by this point.

For a doctor he’s definitely on the cold and severe side; needs to work on his bedside manner. Not that Jason’s really listening. He nods and mumbles agreement at the right moments; says yes when the consultant asks if he understands what he’s being told; agrees to come in for follow up appointments to talk about the next steps; but all he can really think is “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” repeated over and over in his head.

The nurse that comes in to the room after the consultant has swept out is kinder. She’s some kind of specialist but Jason still isn’t really focussing enough to know what it is that she’s a specialist in. Unlike the consultant who just seemed to expect Jason’s agreement, she asks him to tell her what he understands about everything he’s been told, gently correcting anything he’s got glaringly wrong. Jason thinks he probably mumbles out something acceptable because she nods and smiles gently, taking his hand in hers.

He needs to get out of here; can’t breathe in such an enclosed space; needs to get some fresh air. The nurse seems to understand that he can’t take anymore right now (certainly can’t take anything else in) but she doesn’t seem to want to let him leave on his own; keeps asking him if there’s someone she can call for him; suggests that she doesn’t think he should be by himself right now. Jason almost smiles, humourlessly. What exactly does she think he’s going to do? All he wants to do is go home, shut out the world and pretend that today hasn’t happened… and possibly get pissed – getting pissed sounds like an extremely good idea to him.

He thanks her, takes the card she proffers with her name and number on it, agrees to call her at some point in the next few days and shakes her hand. He stands and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, hands full of leaflets and appointment letters and other bits of paperwork that he can’t quite function enough to identify.

“You really shouldn’t be alone,” the nurse frets. “There must be someone you can call. A friend… or a relative.”

Jason pauses in the doorway and looks back over his shoulder at her.

“No,” he answers softly. “There’s no-one. I don’t have anyone left.”

 

* * *

 

It’s been a week since they told him.

Jason hasn’t really been out of the house in that week (only to a follow up appointment that they’d made for him). For the most part he’s spent the last seven days curled up on the sofa watching incredibly bad daytime telly and old movies (and why are all the hosts of daytime programs that frankly alarming shade of orange permatan?). He’s eaten takeaway straight from the containers, got drunk more than once and generally just tried to shut out the world; to forget about everything.

It isn’t really working.

Instead the thoughts swim round and round in his brain. It’s worse at night and he finds himself lying awake in the darkness, staring at the ceiling and trying desperately hard not to think. He hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in the last week – hasn’t slept for more than a couple of hours a night at most – and he can barely recognise himself when he looks in the mirror.

Towards the end of the week though, he starts to come to a few decisions; nothing earth shattering but they will mean a lot to him. For a start, he decides that he isn’t going to go ahead with any of the treatments they’ve offered him. From what he understands those treatments might give him a little more time but would make him horribly ill and, as far as he’s concerned, that’s not something he wants; he has too much he wants to do in the time they have given him to waste it.

He’s not sure anyone else would agree with him, of course – the professionals at the hospital certainly don’t (they’ve arranged for him to see a counsellor to help him “come to terms” with everything and he supposes that that might be a good idea) and he hasn’t told Mac anything yet. He’s always known his own mind though (Mac says he’s too stubborn) and he can’t see anything anyone might say changing how he feels or what he’s decided.

The irony of it is, that he feels fine at the moment; doesn’t really feel ill in any way. He’s been given lots of different things for symptom control but right now, aside from a couple of pills each morning, he doesn’t really need to take any of them; he knows that the time will come (and sooner than he would like) when he will need them but that time is not yet.

He also starts to plan out what he wants to do; to make a list of all the things he’s never managed to find the time for but that he always dreamed of – things that he’s been putting off because it always seemed that there would be plenty of time for them in the future.

Only there won’t be plenty of time in the future. If he doesn’t do them now, he never will.

Top of the list is finding out what happened to his Dad.

In the end he supposes that it won’t make all that much difference (his Dad will still be gone after all) but it’s always felt like there’s a little piece of him missing; he needs closure and this may be his one and only chance to get it.

Jason hasn’t got as far as working out _how_ he’s going to do it though – especially without telling Mac what’s going on – and he wants to avoid that particular conversation for as long as possible; wants to try to avoid thinking about what the future will hold. He’s burying his head in the sand as much as possible and telling Mac (telling anyone) the truth would make it all too real.

It’s a surprise when the doorbell rings; he isn’t expecting anyone after all. He’s never really been a social bunny (has always been viewed as friendly but distant) and doesn’t often have people around – especially not at 10 in the morning.

It’s even more of a surprise when he opens the door and finds Mac on the other side. The man is supposed to be in Athens right now sorting out the relevant permits for his expedition and Jason can’t quite work out why or how he’s on his doorstep.

“Mac,” he blurts out, “why aren’t you in Greece?”

“Got everything sorted quicker than I thought I would,” Mac answers, half pushing past into Jason’s hallway. “We’re nearly there, sunshine. Just got to get the last of the funding sorted and we’ll be on our way at the beginning of May… Speaking of which, how’d you get on with the research?”

“Erm… okay,” Jason replies, feeling a bit off balance.

“Jolly good,” Mac says. “You can tell me all about it in the car.”

“In the car?” Jason echoes blankly.

“Yeah,” Mac answers. “Got a sponsorship meeting and I need you there. You’re the one that’s done the research after all and I’ll need you to talk through it.” He hesitates. “I know you don’t like these sorts of meetings Jas, but I really do need you on this one and it’s good experience. I know it’s short notice but I only got the word late last night that they wanted to meet with us and this is the only time they can do.”

He looks properly at Jason for the first time and frowns.

“Are you alright, sunshine?” he asks. “It’s not like you not to be dressed at this time in the morning.”

Jason looks down at himself and grimaces. He’d forgotten when he answered the door that he’s still wearing the elderly t-shirt and worn jogging bottoms that he sleeps in. The truth is that he hasn’t bothered getting dressed for the past week apart from the trip to hospital for the outpatient’s appointment.

“Had a lay in this morning,” he shrugs. “I didn’t think I had anything to do so I was being a bit lazy.”

Mac’s frown deepens. He knows that his godson is a habitually early riser after all (had taught him to be on the trips out on the boat as a teenager).

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You look a bit pale.”

Jason scowls and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’m fine. Just getting over a cold.”

Mac’s eyes narrow.

“If you’re not well you don’t have to come,” he says.

“I’m fine,” Jason repeats through gritted teeth. “Just let me go and get some clothes on.”

Mac looks at him appraisingly for a moment.

“Alright,” he says. “If you’re sure.”

Jason doesn’t bother to respond to that.

“Go on through,” he says. “You know where the kettle is. Get yourself a coffee and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

He starts to move down the hallway towards the bathroom, leaving Mac to his own devices.

“Jas?”

Mac’s voice stops him in his tracks and he turns to find the older man is standing in the kitchen doorway watching him thoughtfully.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Mac goes on. “So if there’s something wrong you _can_ talk to me.”

Jason nods silently; he doesn’t trust his voice not to betray him. He turns back away from Mac and hurries into the bathroom.

One super quick shower later and he’s feeling vaguely human. He drags on a shirt and trousers (because somehow he doesn’t think that his usual t-shirt and jeans would be particularly appropriate for Mac’s meeting) and peers at himself in the mirror, grimacing at his own reflection. It’s no wonder Mac thinks something is wrong. He looks pale and hollow eyed, and a five day growth of stubble (rapidly heading towards a full beard with his dark hair) only heightens the effect. He brushes his teeth, has a quick shave (perhaps not the most thorough he’s ever managed but good enough for now), drags a comb through his unruly hair and tries to pinch some colour back into his cheeks.

It isn’t perfect but the effect is good enough; on the whole he manages to look almost normal. He nods to himself and heads towards the living room to join Mac, certain that (at least for now) he can maintain the façade.

 

* * *

 

It’s raining by the time they come out of the meeting and get back into Mac’s battered old Land Rover. Jason watches fat droplets of water meandering down the glass as he rests his head against the car window, lost in thought.

Mac watches him out of the corner of his eye, trying to keep his concentration on the rain slicked road but worrying more than he would like to admit. Jason is distracted, more distant than usual, and, although he played his part in the meeting (did everything that was asked of him and more), his heart clearly wasn’t in it.

Mac’s even tried to get a rise out of him by playing that cheesy 80s CD that Jason always takes the micky out of on the car stereo, but he doesn’t even seem to have noticed.

Mac’s frown deepens. He’s never been a demonstrative man but he loves his godson dearly – even if he isn’t all that good at showing it. Jason has been his son in all but name ever since the boy’s father went missing all those years ago. Sometimes he wonders if he should have tried to adopt the lad formally but he had never wanted Jason to forget his real father. So they had stayed as they were, with the boy calling him “Mac” (never “Uncle” or even “Dad”).

They’ve muddled through well enough together over the years and Mac has learned to read Jason (better than the boy thinks he can at least) so he knows without doubt that the young man is worried about something now – and that worries him.

“Jas?” he says, keeping his eyes firmly on the road and not on the young man at his side – although he does keep watch out of the corner of his eye. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Jason starts visibly and turns to look at Mac with wide eyes.

“What?” he asks uncertainly. “Sorry… I was daydreaming.”

“Is something worrying you?” Mac asks. “You’ve seemed distracted all morning.”

“No,” Jason answers unconvincingly.

He’s never been a particularly competent liar; has always been a bit too honest for that. Mac remembers some particularly unconvincing excuses he gave as a teenager to try to get himself out of trouble with nostalgic fondness.

Still, he doesn’t really like the thought that the boy ( _his_ boy) isn’t being entirely open with him now.

“Jason,” he growls firmly. “If there’s something wrong I want to know what it is.”

“It’s nothing,” Jason replies evasively.

“Jas, please,” Mac says, glancing away from the road to look at his companion. “What’s the matter sunshine?”

Jason hesitates. He knows deep down that he should tell his godfather what’s going on – that Mac would want nothing more than to help him – and part of him longs for Mac to take charge of everything; to tell him that everything will be alright. If he tells Mac about the hospital and the diagnosis, he knows that his godfather will be shocked and desperately upset but that he will be unfailingly supportive; that he will take the hard decisions if Jason lets him.

Jason still isn’t ready to face it though – not really; just wants to ignore it in the vain hope that it will all go away (even if it does play on his mind day and night). He tries to smile, feeling the skin tighten uncomfortably across his face and knowing that there is a good chance that it looks more like a grimace.

“I’m just a bit tired,” he answers softly. “Haven’t been sleeping all that well,” he pauses for a moment and swallows hard, “and I’ve been thinking…”

“What about?” Mac asks.

“When we go out to the site in May… how close will we be to where Dad went missing?”

The question is not what Mac was expecting and takes his breath away for a moment.

“Not that far,” he answers guardedly. “A couple of hours away is all… why do you ask?”

Jason turns those devastatingly appealing eyes on him and Mac’s guard increases; his senses screaming at him that something is very wrong beyond what he can see.

“I need to know what happened to him,” Jason says quietly. “I can’t move on until I do.”

“I told you what happened to him,” Mac answers. “He took a sub down and it was lost. We searched for him long beyond the point where we should have given up. I couldn’t bring myself to accept that he was really gone… but he was, sunshine.”

He looks for somewhere that he can pull over to talk to Jason properly. There’s a gap in the parked cars at the side of the road so he signals and pulls into it, turning off the engine and twisting to face his godson fully.

“Your Dad wouldn’t want this for you,” he says firmly.

He’s always known that Jason has issues; has hang-ups about what happened to his father; has never quite been able to let it go. Over the years there have been times when the boy has shown signs of being obsessed and Mac has let it go on for long enough; it’s time to nip it in the bud before Jason goes too far.

“Mac,” Jason begins.

“Your Dad was a good man,” Mac continues, as though Jason hadn’t tried to speak, “but he’s been gone a long time. It’s time to let him go, Jas.”

“I know,” Jason answers. “I really do know,” he adds at Mac’s incredulous look. “But I can’t. Can’t you see that? I need closure. I need to know why.”

Mac sighs and reaches out to put a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder.

“I don’t think there’s anything that will ever tell you why,” he remarks softly.

“Maybe not,” Jason replies, his voice suddenly thick. “But maybe if we can find the wreckage and I can see it for myself then I’ll be able to let go.”

He looks away from Mac, blinking back the sudden wetness on his eyelashes and setting his jaw stubbornly; he will not give in and break down now – no good could come of it.

“It’d be too dangerous,” Mac states. “Your Dad wouldn’t want you to risk your life.”

Jason snorts. His life isn’t exactly worth all that much at the moment – although Mac doesn’t know that.

“Why would it be any more dangerous than going down looking for any other wreck?” he points out. “You said yourself that it’s not far from where we’ll be diving anyway. Are the conditions likely to be _that_ different?”

He genuinely doesn’t know the answer to that one; is relying on Mac’s memory of the site where his Dad disappeared. He knows that actually the conditions under the water could be vastly different between the two sites (the terrain and undersea currents might make one far more dangerous than the other after all) but he’s hoping that Mac will say that they’re not; that the caution that Mac uses to pick their dive sites now will have meant that Jason’s Dad’s last site was no more dangerous than any of the other sites he has worked on over the years (than any of the sites Jason has worked on with him).

Mac closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, he looks sadder than Jason thinks he’s ever seen him.

“No,” he says softly. “It isn’t any more dangerous than the site we’re planning on diving. When your Dad first said he wanted to dive there – when he first identified the site as worth a look – it’s one of the things he sold it to me on actually: how much safer it was than some of the stuff we had been doing.”

“Mac,” Jason begins but stops, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Jason, you know I’d do anything for you,” Mac says thickly, with an uncharacteristic display of emotion, “but you’re asking me to let you risk your life chasing a ghost.”

Jason swallows.

“Yes,” he acknowledges. “I am… but I need this. I need to be able to say goodbye finally. I need to find the wreck of his sub and I need to be able to see it for myself.” He swallows hard again. “I think Dad knew he wouldn’t be coming back,” he admits (and he’s never really admitted it out loud to another living soul before). “I think that when he said goodbye to me he knew he’d never see me again… but no-one ever found a body and you said yourself that you didn’t have another sub that you could send down to look for the wreckage properly. I know he’s gone… that he’s not coming back… logically I _know_ that but part of me’s always thought that maybe it was a mistake… that maybe he’d come back through the door one day. He told me that one day I’d understand but I don’t… I can’t. I need to know Mac. I need to see it for myself and say goodbye. I can’t move on until I do.”

“I wish I could say that I don’t understand,” Mac says huskily. “But I do. I only wish there was a safer way.”

He stares out through the windscreen at the rain swept street for a long moment. The pavement is a sea of umbrellas and hoods as the pedestrians try to hurry along to their destinations, staying as dry as possible. A small child, having briefly escaped his mother’s grasp, splashes in the puddles; taking pleasure in the weather in a way that the adults have long since forgotten. Mac watches him for a moment, remembering a time when the young man at his side was just a little child, jumping in puddles on his way home from school while Mac tried to hurry him home and into the dry. He wishes he could go back to that simpler time.

Finally he turns back to face his godson again.

“Alright,” he says. “I’m still not happy about this but I’ll dig out the paperwork from the last time we were there… from when your Dad was lost. You need to remember that the conditions on the sea floor might have changed though… Your Dad was a long way down when we lost contact with the sub and the only scans we’ve got of the region are going to be well out of date. If, _and only if_ , we have time at the end of the main trip we’ll go and have a look. We’ll spend a couple of days, do a sonar scan, check out the area and then if it’s safe enough you might be able to go down… But,” he adds firmly, “it’s my boat and I get the final say. If I think it’s too dangerous you don’t go.”

Jason’s smile is like the sun coming up. Mac doesn’t have the heart to dampen his youthful enthusiasm (never has had). He already knows that, unless there is something glaringly dangerous, he will let Jason take the sub down to look for his father’s wreck in spite of his own misgivings. The boy has always had him wrapped around his little finger – even if Jason doesn’t quite realise it (much to Mac’s relief).

 

* * *

 

They’ve been at the site of his father’s wreck for a while now – just long enough to make sure that it’s safe enough to take a sub down. The scans have shown that there is _something_ down there (which may well be the wreckage of a small single person sub – it certainly looks that way to Jason’s trained eyes) but that it’s down deep. It’s deep enough that Mac insisted on spending a bit more time than usual surveying the site in general.

Now, though, everything is ready. The only thing that could stop Jason taking the sub down is the weather and all the reports have promised that it will be clear enough for the foreseeable future – for long enough to do what he needs to anyway.

Today is the day; today is the day when Jason finally has a chance to find out what happened to his Dad; to finally understand _why_ he never came home.

He’s been up since four – a mixture of excitement and nerves making it almost impossible to sleep – reading quietly in his cabin to avoid waking the rest of the boat too early. It’s been almost impossible to concentrate though.

He looks up from the paragraph he’s just read for the fourth time without taking any of it in, feeling the urge to cough, and grabs a tissue from a box on the side, letting loose a string of swear words in his head as he feels a damp spray from his hacking gather in the handkerchief – knowing that if he looked it would be red. Mornings are the worst. Mornings are the one time of the day when Jason actually feels ill. He’s getting worse and he knows it; knows that he will have to tell Mac the truth sooner rather than later, before his godfather guesses for himself that there’s something very wrong. He’s promised himself that he will talk to Mac properly as soon as they are back to shore (knows that if he told Mac now, he’d never be allowed to take the sub down and that isn’t something he’s willing to risk).

Jason sighs and closes his well-thumbed novel (one he’s read so many times over the years that he knows every word by heart), carefully marking his place with an envelope and putting the book on the small shelf next to his bunk, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and making his way across the small cabin to throw the frankly disgusting tissue in the bin under the small desk.

He glances around the room. Everything is as ready as he can make it (he thinks). He’s not anticipating any trouble today (after all he’s taken the sub down in far worse conditions without any trouble) but even so he thinks he’s left everything tidy. Jason’s never been a fatalistic person (if anyone asked he would describe himself as an optimist) but he’s still left a letter for Mac (in the envelope he’s using as a bookmark) explaining everything just in case something does go wrong. Somehow he can’t bear the thought that his godfather would be left with the same sorts of questions he’s spent the best part of his life trying to answer; needs Mac to fully understand everything – just in case he never gets the chance to explain for himself.

The clock on the wall reads six – still early but at least there will be other members of the crew beginning to get up and move around. Jason throws on his jeans and t-shirt and stuffs his feet into an elderly pair of trainers. As he’s leaving the room, he snags a sweatshirt from the back of the chair and pulls it on over his head as he’s making his way down the narrow corridor. Later on the heat will be stifling but it can be chilly out on deck this early in the morning.

He grabs a scaldingly hot mug of coffee from the galley and nearly burns his tongue as he gulps it down, before making his way out onto deck, greeting any of the crew that he sees in a somewhat distracted manner.

There’s a distinct breeze this morning and the sea is a little choppy – the wind stirring it up into small foaming waves. Jason leans on the railing at the side of the deck and looks out over the water, the breeze ruffling his dark curls. It’s pleasant to stand here breathing the sea air and letting his thoughts wander, and he feels a sense of peace and purpose that he hasn’t had ever since he got the damned diagnosis. Behind him the rest of the ship is beginning to wake up and get on with the day, but for a few minutes he can enjoy the peace and quiet.

Quite how long he’s standing at the railings, Jason couldn’t say. He hears Mac approaching (knows it will be his godfather without needing to look) but he doesn’t turn. He suspects Mac will make one final attempt to talk him out of going down and looking for the wreckage of his Dad’s sub but it won’t work – Jason is nothing if not stubborn when there’s something he’s made his mind up about.

Still, he just wants to get today over with – just wants to get this first (and biggest) item ticked off his bucket list – and then he’ll talk to Mac; explain what’s been happening for the past couple of months and let his godfather step in to help him. Whatever might happen tomorrow, one thing Jason is certain of – by this evening he will have some of the answers he has craved for so long.

 


	2. Life (or something like it)

 

Atlantis has been one hell of an adventure so far.

When he had first arrived, Jason had been at least half convinced that he was already dead (or that this whole scenario was a fantasy conjured up by his dying mind). It hadn’t really taken all that long for him to realise that he wasn’t and that this was real but even so it had really seemed a bit of a no brainer to him to offer himself as a sacrifice in Pythagoras’ place – after all, _he_ was already dying so it wouldn’t matter all that much if he was killed.

As it had turned out, Pythagoras had felt somewhat differently about the matter.

Not that he knew there was anything wrong with Jason of course (beyond thinking he was a bit touched in the head at times) and Jason wanted to keep it that way for now. It wasn’t that he wanted to deceive his friends – it was more that he didn’t think he could bear the pity he would see in their eyes if they knew the truth.

Besides, since he had come to Atlantis, he hadn’t felt particularly unwell. The hot dry climate seemed to agree with him. Most of the time he could almost forget that he had ever been told that he was terminally ill.

There _were_ bad days of course. Days when his chest felt tight and breathing felt more difficult; days when he was in pain. But so far it had been fairly easy to hide it all. He would simply take himself off on those days (would leave the house early before either one of his friends was up) and would find somewhere to hole up until everything passed – usually the Temple to be honest; tucked behind a pillar or statue where no-one would look. He knew that Melas knew he was there (and that the Oracle most likely did too) but no-one ever disturbed him and no-one ever commented on his presence.

One month slipped easily into another and the bad days became fewer and farther between. Jason wondered at that point (still does wonder when he remembers to think about it) whether maybe the doctors where he had come from had got it wrong; or perhaps his illness hadn’t come with him to Atlantis (if that was at all possible) and that the bad days he’d had when he first arrived here had simply been the last vestiges working their way out of his body.

Part of him knows that that’s wishful thinking of course; that nothing is ever that simple. But he throws himself into his life here wholeheartedly, and if he takes more risks than is strictly necessary – is a little more reckless and careless of his own well-being than his friends would like – well, what does it really matter? He’s long since accepted that his life won’t be all that long and if he can stop someone else from being harmed (or, you know, save Atlantis and all its inhabitants from drowning – that would be good too) he’s going to do it no matter what it costs him.

The days slide by until one day, camped in the woods, trying to evade Pasiphae’s soldiers, he realises that he’s been here for two years. It’s a startling thought to be honest – he’s already outlived the estimate that the consultant at the hospital gave him in the outset by at least a year and shows no signs of becoming unwell. He sits on his blankets in the early morning light while his friends and the love of his life are still asleep around him and thinks about it.

When Orpheus had said that Jason’s journey was only just beginning, he hadn’t fully taken the man seriously. After all, he knows that his time here will be short. Ariadne had asked him whether he thought they would ever get to be as old (and as happy) as Orpheus and Eurydice and he had told her that he didn’t know – but as far as he was concerned he thought he did know; thought that there was no way in hell, but couldn’t bring himself to tell Ariadne that.

But now he wonders. Did the hospital get it wrong? Is it possible that he might actually live a full and long life?

There’s no real use in speculating about it here and now though – not when Pasiphae is actively seeking to kill them all. They will have to be on the move soon; can’t afford to stay in one place for too long. Jason pushes himself to his feet and makes quick work of rolling up his blankets and stuffing them into the bag that he carries, before turning to Pythagoras’ bag and rifling through it in search of breakfast (it’s far safer to let Pythagoras look after the food supplies most of the time – Hercules would eat everything in sight given half the chance, so they tend not to trust him with it).

By the time he wakes the others up, Jason has managed to find a hunk of bread and some fruit which he splits between the four of them. It’s not much (and certainly far less than he would like to be able to give to Ariadne) but it will stop them from starving at least.

He’s perhaps a little quieter than normal as they prepare to leave their camp; trying to hide all evidence that they have ever been here. He’s thinking about everything that’s happened ever since he went to the library that day; thinking about his Dad and about where his journey in search of the truth behind his Dad’s disappearance has brought him. He can see his friends exchanging worried looks out of the corner of his eye and supposes that with everything that’s happened in the last few weeks he can understand it.

They haven’t discussed where they’re going this time; haven’t talked about what they’re going to do next. Defeating Pasiphae and reclaiming Atlantis still seems like a distant dream. The wise course of action should surely be to get as far away as they can; put themselves beyond Pasiphae’s reach. Perhaps they could take shelter with Ariadne’s brother Therus (if they can find him); certainly Ariadne would be safer there than wandering the woods endlessly, trying to avoid being captured.

Jason knows without even needing to think about it that Ariadne will never take that course of action; will never abandon her people to his mother’s evil. To a large extent he understands it (agrees with it). So they never stray too far from the city; always keep close by in the hope of finding the opportunity they need to defeat Pasiphae.

The woods are beautiful this morning. If it weren’t for the danger of their situation, Jason would actually be enjoying himself. He forges ahead of the group, feeling their eyes on his back the whole time. He wishes he could reassure them that he really is alright (that he really is himself once more) but somehow he isn’t sure that would actually help.

They crest a rise and the land falls away beneath them into a deep valley. In the far distance Atlantis rises on a hill, the ground in between the city and where they are standing stretching for miles. At this distance Atlantis looks so peaceful – serene even – and Jason stops still, taking in the view before him.

“You are very quiet this morning,” Pythagoras observes from somewhere over Jason’s left shoulder.

Jason turns to look at him and frowns when he realises they are alone. Where are Hercules and Ariadne? It isn’t a good idea for them to split up. Then he sees them, back in the edge of the trees; trying to look as though they are busy. _Ah_. Pythagoras must have volunteered to be the one to talk to him then (or been volunteered by Hercules, he thinks uncharitably).

“I am fine,” he answers softly. “I was just thinking, that was all.”

“About what?” Pythagoras asks warily – he’s learned the hard way that some of Jason’s ideas are more than a little dangerous after all.

“About my father,” Jason replies.

He watches the worry on Pythagoras’ face morph into understanding and compassion and has to turn away.

“I am sorry,” Pythagoras says genuinely. “With everything that has been happening, you have not even had the chance to grieve.”

“I barely knew my Dad,” Jason protests quietly. “I think if anyone has the right to grieve in this group it’s Hercules.”

“Hercules _is_ grieving for Medusa,” Pythagoras points out, “and we all know it and are trying to help him through it… but the fact that Hercules is grieving does not mean that you are not allowed to feel sad too.”

Jason sighs softly, the sound little more than a gentle exhale, and closes his eyes as the image of his father dying in his arms just a few days ago springs to mind.

“There was so much I wanted to ask him,” he says. “So much I needed to know.” He swallows hard. “In the end I don’t suppose it matters… but I just wish…” he trails off, trying to control himself.

Pythagoras wraps an arm around Jason’s shoulders without even thinking about it.

“Your father loved you,” he states, his voice thicker than usual. “He was so very proud of you. If you know nothing else then believe that.”

“I hope so,” Jason replies. He huffs a faint laugh that somehow doesn’t sound amused. “I came to Atlantis looking for him… looking for what had happened to him… do you remember?”

“Indeed I do,” Pythagoras answers. “How could I forget? Your arrival was somewhat dramatic after all. I do not think I have ever had anyone land on my roof before and have certainly never found anyone else hanging by their fingertips from the balcony and had to rescue them.”

The corners of Jason’s mouth begin to twitch towards a smile (even if it’s not quite there yet) and Pythagoras feels himself relaxing a little.

“I can see that it would be an unusual occurrence,” Jason says.

He looks back at the view and sighs, but it is not an unhappy sound.

“I realised this morning that I’ve been here for two years,” he adds.

“Yes it must be,” Pythagoras agrees, doing a couple of quick calculations in his head. “I am glad that you came to Atlantis… glad it was our roof you landed on... even though I am sorry you did not get to spend more time with your father before he died.”

“Yeah,” Jason says. “I wish I’d got to spend a bit more time with him too.” He looks sideways at Pythagoras. “But just so you know, on the whole I am glad I came to Atlantis… and I am very glad it was your roof I ended up on.”

Pythagoras is ridiculously touched somehow; Jason is not given to discussing feelings in this way normally; is a bit more closed off than that.

“Anyway,” his brunette friend continues in a much more decided tone of voice (Pythagoras has privately dubbed it his ‘hero’ voice and is always wary when he hears it), “I have been thinking.”

Pythagoras nearly groans – those particular words combined with that tone of voice never bodes well.

“I can’t leave Diocles rotting in the cells,” Jason goes on. “I would have been killed in the arena if it was not for him. I owe him a debt and I mean to honour it.” He pauses for a moment, knowing that Pythagoras is likely to come up with some (probably quite reasonable) objections to what he is about to say. “I am going back to Atlantis. I mean to free Diocles.”

Pythagoras stares at him in consternation (although really he should know better than to be shocked at one of his friend’s mad schemes by now). Jason still isn’t fully healed from his sojourn in the arena; the scabbed over cuts standing out lividly against his tanned skin.

“Jason, that is insanity,” Pythagoras states sharply. “Pasiphae will kill you on sight.”

“Only if she catches me,” Jason replies with a sudden and unexpected grin.

“Be serious,” Pythagoras grumbles.

“I am,” Jason says firmly, the grin sliding away into a look of determination. “Diocles saved my life and I am not going to let him die.” He turns to look at Pythagoras fully, aware that in his peripheral vision Hercules and Ariadne are coming to join them. “We need to find a way into the arena… I was hoping that Icarus could help.”

“Icarus?” Pythagoras says.

“Indeed,” Jason replies. “His help has been invaluable, hasn’t it?”

“You would be asking him to risk his life,” Pythagoras protests.

“He has already done that several times,” Jason says. “I would not ask him lightly, you know that. Besides, he could always say no.”

“And if he does?”

“Then I look for another way,” Jason replies. “But I am going back to Atlantis and I _am_ going to do this.”

He’s got that stubborn look on his face again and Pythagoras knows from experience that that means he won’t be talked out of the decision he’s made – no matter how stupid or reckless that decision might seem to the rest of them.

“Jason,” Pythagoras begins.

“You do not have to come with me,” Jason interrupts earnestly. “I will understand if you do not want to help.”

“Of course we’re coming with you.”

Hercules’ voice is harsh and his two friends turn to face him, startled; they had both known he was approaching but hadn’t realised he had actually joined them. At his shoulder Ariadne watches them grimly, her beautiful face set in a deep frown.

“We’ve only just got you back, so if you think we’re letting you go wandering off on some suicidally insane mission on your own you’ve got another thing coming!” the burly wrestler continues, clearly warming to his subject. “Though why I listen to you and let myself be dragged along, I don’t know. Just planning to enter Atlantis at the moment is madness, let alone trying to break into the cells beneath the arena – under the very noses of the guards – and releasing one specific prisoner.”

Jason turns towards Pythagoras.

“It will be easier if Icarus can help us to find a way to the cells,” he says softly. “He doesn’t actually have to be involved in rescuing Diocles beyond helping us to find a way to get from the streets into the arena without being spotted.”

“He would still be killed if he was caught,” Pythagoras states seriously.

“I know,” Jason admits. “And I will understand if he doesn’t want to help… but will you at least ask him? I presume you have a way of contacting him…”

“I do,” Pythagoras agrees. “When I first asked for his and his father’s help, we arranged that he would leave the city at the same time every seven days and come to the hunting lodge. It is how I have been getting supplies for us.”

“Are you mad?” Hercules demands. “He could be followed at any time and he would lead them right to us.”

“We are both careful,” Pythagoras protests. “The guards think that he is searching for items for his father to study or to use for his inventions. Daedalus is a known eccentric and it has never been unusual for him to send Icarus off looking for odd things. Since most of the gate guards are native to Atlantis and not Colchis, they are used to seeing Icarus on missions for his father. They no longer even bother to question him.”

Hercules frowns. Something seems wrong with that set up but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is. Besides, Pythagoras is a genius, he muses. Surely he would have realised if there was something truly wrong?

“Even if Icarus _does_ by some miracle manage to find a way for us to get to the cells beneath the arena, how in the name of the Gods are you planning on getting into Atlantis without being spotted in the first place? And how exactly were you planning on escaping afterwards?” Hercules demands, glaring at Jason. “This is madness. Complete madness. And _you_ are going to get us all killed!” He points one meaty finger accusingly at his friend.

Jason’s mouth twitches towards a smile again.

“I have a plan,” he says.

 

* * *

 

The _Argo_ is a nicer boat that Jason was expecting – certainly nicer than anything he expected them to be able to find when they arrived at the harbour. But then, lots have things have happened that he wasn’t expecting since the fateful morning when they entered the Temple to receive the blessing of the Gods (a lot of things have happened since that fateful morning when he took to sub down to look for his father’s wreck, his mind unhelpfully supplies. He’s no longer the same boy he was then; isn’t sure he even recognises himself any more).

For a start he never expected his mother to return as one of the undead (and his mind flashes unbidden to various zombie movies that he watched back in college). He never expected to have to flee Atlantis again and he certainly never expected to be going on a quest to find and destroy the Golden Fleece after all (and, what do you know? It turns out he _is_ that Jason after all – although with his luck he supposes he should really have been expecting it!). He knows that the others have deep misgivings about the journey they are on (and truth be told, he does too, but he can’t let anyone know that) but he has to try; has to at least attempt to stop Pasiphae; cannot give up as long as there is breath left in his body.

Finding a ship to take them to Colchis had been surprisingly easy – almost suspiciously so, as though the Gods had conspired to provide the vessel for them (and if Jason had almost spat out the mouthful of wine he had just taken when he heard the name, he hopes no-one noticed). Diocles and his friend Leon managing to escape Atlantis and joining them at the harbour (with a few of the other men who Jason and his friends had rescued from the arena) had seemed a wonderful coincidence (and gave them the beginnings of a crew) but when Atalanta had appeared at the tavern they were staying in (so far from her home in the Forest of Calydon that there was no way her arrival could be by pure luck alone) Jason had begun to suspect some sort of divine intervention (although he still has mixed feelings and uncertain beliefs where the Gods are concerned).

Atalanta had simply told them that her Goddess had instructed her to join them (and, Jason supposes, where to find them) in a tone that had brooked no argument.

So now they have a crew and they are (finally) almost ready to depart. Jason believes (hopes) that they will all relax a bit once they are at sea; that once they are beyond the reach of Pasiphae and her army they will all be relieved. As it is they have transferred from the rooms they were staying in at the harbour-side tavern to the _Argo_. The last supplies will be loaded onto the ship tonight and tomorrow at dawn they will set sail.

It can’t come soon enough for Jason. He’s tired – the sort of bone deep weariness that makes you ache inside. He’s been feeling this way for a while to be honest – although it’s been worse for the last few days since they arrived at the port. He supposes it’s the stress of the past few months finally catching up with him.

It’s evening and supper is over. Jason is sitting at the table in the central room alone. He isn’t entirely sure where everyone else has gone. He thinks he heard Pythagoras muttering something about checking on his herbs and he knows that Ariadne and Cassandra went to the bathhouse, but as for everyone else, he doesn’t really have a clue.

Perhaps he should have gone with Ariadne to the bathhouse. Once they set sail there isn’t likely to be much chance of having a relaxing bath for some time – they will have to make do with washing in bowls of water for the foreseeable future. Somehow he hadn’t been able to summon up the energy to move though, so Ariadne had gone off (dragging Cassandra with her to try to get to know the girl a little better) and Jason has been left here alone ever since.

He closes his eyes and reaches up with one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. A light, floral smell wafts towards him and he smiles; Ariadne’s perfume is instantly recognisable.

“Are you alright?”

She appears from somewhere behind him, gliding gracefully into his line of sight and sitting down next to him. The dress she is wearing is darker than the one she was wearing when they escaped from Atlantis and bears some resemblance to the dress she was wearing the day they met. Apparently there is a dressmaker in town who is still loyal to the girl she believes is the true Queen, who had insisted on presenting a dress of Ariadne’s choice as a gift.

“I am fine,” Jason replies with a smile. “You look beautiful.”

Ariadne hesitates for a moment.

“I have been thinking,” she says. “What if we do not try to find this Fleece and destroy it? What if we were to take this ship and sail far away? We could settle somewhere. Have a simple life.”

Jason frowns.

“Then Pasiphae would win,” he replies. “She would be Queen and the people of Atlantis would suffer for it. I cannot let that happen… and I don’t really think you can either.”

“You are right,” Ariadne sighs. “Of course you are right… it is just that I hate to see you looking so worn down.”

Jason draws her into his arms and drops a kiss down onto her head, breathing in the scent of rose petals from her hair.

“I feel the same way about you,” he says softly. “You are everything to me. You do know that, don’t you?”

“And Medea?”

Jason sighs and eases Ariadne back until he can look her in the eyes.

“Medea means nothing to me,” he answers firmly. “It is you that I married. You that I _wanted_ to marry.” He hesitates for a moment before plunging on. “The morning after our wedding… when Medea came to me to tell me that she was returning to Colchis and how she believed Pasiphae could be defeated… she wanted us to be together.”

He reaches down and tilts her face up with his fingers.

“I said no,” he says. “I told her I had married you.”

“Do you regret it?” Ariadne asks, tears in her voice.

“No,” Jason replies. “Never.” He swallows hard. “There is a part of me that was drawn to Medea,” he admits, “and I think there always will be. In a lot of ways we are very alike.”

“You are nothing like that witch,” Ariadne replies angrily, pulling away from Jason.

Jason reaches out to her and pulls her back into his arms.

“Oh I am,” he answers softly. “I am more like her than you know. I know what it is to be rejected… to be different… an outsider.” He sighs. “Medea and I share a bond… because we are both touched by the Gods. It’s not something that I can control. When she is near, I can feel her… I know where she is… but I don’t love her.”

He drops another soft kiss into his wife’s hair, relishing the feel of her in his arms.

“I love you,” he says. “I always have. From the first moment I saw you. I’d never really believed in love at first sight until then. It’s _you_ that I want to spend the rest of my life with. It always has been and it always will be.” He tilts Ariadne’s face again to look deeply into her dark eyes. “I will love you until the last breath leaves my body,” he says. “I promise you that.”

“Then I can ask for nothing more,” Ariadne replies.

She leans in and draws Jason into a deep kiss, before settling back against him, her head nestled comfortably against his shoulder.

“With everything that has happened, I sometimes believe that the world has gone mad,” she says quietly. “Pasiphae feared our union so much that she was willing to do anything to stop it. I sometimes think that our marriage is the only good thing to have come out of the last few months.”

As she speaks, Jason has gently lifted her arm and is dropping tender kisses along the inside of her wrist and up her palm until he reaches the tips of her fingers. Ariadne smiles and rests her palm against the side of his face.

“No-one can say that we shouldn’t be together now,” Jason says. He looks at Ariadne with his heart in his eyes. “I feel more for you than I can ever express.”

“And I love you with all my heart,” Ariadne replies.

She feels Jason sigh faintly against her.

“What is it?” she asks.

“It’s nothing,” Jason answers. “I am just tired.” He huffs a faint laugh. “I think the last few months are finally catching up on me.”

“Then let’s go to bed,” Ariadne murmurs, standing with one graceful movement and reaching down to take her husband’s hand to lead him to their room.

“Isn’t it a bit early?” Jason protests half-heartedly, his eyes dancing. “What happens if the others come back?”

Ariadne laughs lightly.

“We are newly married,” she points out mischievously. “I do not think that anyone would question our need to be alone or that we have chosen to disappear to the bedroom together.”

Jason grins and allows himself to be pulled along into the bedroom he shares with his wife and carefully closes the door behind him, shutting out the rest of the world before he pulls Ariadne into his arms once more and kisses her deeply.

He isn’t entirely sure what wakes him early the next morning. It should be pleasant lying here with his wife in his arms – it _is_ pleasant but his back is aching badly and he generally feels a bit bleurgh. Now they are not fleeing for their lives, trying to avoid Pasiphae’s troops at every turn (and, yes, he _does_ realise that they’re still not completely safe but they’re a lot better off than they were in the woods), his body and mind have relaxed a little more and he suspects that as a result he might be coming down with something.

Jason feels a cough beginning to bubble up in his chest and grimaces. The last thing he really wants is to be ill now – there’s still too much to do, what with trying to find and destroy this Golden Fleece Cassandra has told him about. He carefully extracts himself from under Ariadne, not wanting to wake her if at all possible; she hasn’t had many opportunities to sleep late in the past few months.

He slips out into the main room on silent feet and sits down at the table, pouring himself a cup of water. The cough that was threatening in the bedroom bursts out now, leaving him breathless with his chest burning. It’s a wet hacking that leaves the hand covering his mouth feeling damp and disgusting. Jason grimaces again as the coughing subsides and grabs a cloth from the table, wetting it from the water jug so that he can wash off the residue on his hand. As he goes to wipe the mess away, he glances at his hand and freezes: his palm is smeared in red.

_Shit_.

 

* * *

 

They’ve been on the _Argo_ for nearly two months, island hopping from one place to another but never seeming to get any nearer to Colchis (or at least as far as Jason can tell – although he would be the first to admit that his knowledge of the geography of ancient Hellas isn’t all that great). It doesn’t help that the boat has to be beached overnight whenever possible to allow her to dry out. Otherwise, he is told, she could become waterlogged.

The first time it happened Jason had expressed a certain amount of concern, only to be told by Hercules (rolling his eyes at Jason’s apparent ignorance) that this was completely normal given her soft-wood construction. Apparently ships of this period are very light but very prone to waterlogging.

So far, Jason has managed to keep his illness from his friends (well, he thinks Cassandra probably knows – what with her being the Oracle and all). He won’t be able to do it forever and doesn’t really want to to be honest, but he’s not entirely sure how to raise the subject. Saying “by the way guys I forgot to mention it earlier but actually I have a horrible illness that’s going to kill me” over dinner seems like a spectacularly bad idea somehow. The problem is that he knows that the longer he leaves it the harder it will become to say anything – but also, the harder it will become to hide the truth.

He’s already getting tired too easily (is tired most of the time) and has little appetite some days. He forces himself to eat more to stop his friends (his family, because that’s what they’ve really become) from worrying about him and on the whole it seems to be working so far.

The coughing blood is a bit harder to hide – although up until now he’s been able to excuse himself whenever he feels his chest getting tight and a cough building. He gets away with it because there are so many things on this ship that need his attention, so for him to need to be somewhere else urgently is not unusual.

Sooner or later his companions are going to find out that something is wrong. Jason knows that. He’s worried though. Technically he’s the leader of this particular little ‘quest’ and he’s worried how the crew will react if they realise he’s ill. No-one thinks that finding and destroying the Fleece will be easy and Jason knows that most of the crew are afraid. It wouldn’t take much for them to start deserting and he’s worried that this may be the thing that tips them over the edge.

One evening, standing at the rail of the ship looking at the stars, Jason decides that the sea air is actually making things worse. Just as the hot, dry air of Atlantis seemed to help him, the humid atmosphere at sea level is exacerbating his chest.

Today has been a particularly bad day. His shoulders and chest have been aching constantly and he’s felt breathless all day; is tired and in pain. He’s deliberately avoided everyone as much as possible – no mean feat in a confined space, because, although the _Argo_ isn’t small, she isn’t all that large either.

He sighs and tries to rub away the ache currently residing in his left shoulder, futile though he knows the attempt might be.

The sky is pocked with stars, bright and beautiful. Jason tries to relax his shoulders and take as deep breaths as he possibly can. He’s always loved the ocean; found a deep peace in the sound of the waves. The rocking of the ship lulls him gently.

“Why have you not told anyone?”

The speaker is as unexpected as the question and Jason turns to face Icarus, thoroughly startled.

“About what?” he asks, genuinely perplexed.

“That you are not well,” Icarus states flatly.

Jason blinks, caught completely off guard and off balance for once. Icarus doesn’t generally speak all that much. It’s not that he’s unfriendly and he is more than willing to join in the conversation when asked, but as a rule he is one of the quieter members of the group.

“I do not know what you mean,” Jason mutters, less than convincingly.

Icarus comes to join him at the rail and looks out over the sea.

“Yes you do,” he says. “You cough into a piece of cloth when you think no-one is watching and there are times when you are clearly in pain, no matter how much you try to hide it. I have seen the blood on the cloth.”

“It seems you have seen more than I thought anyone had,” Jason answers softly.

Icarus half smiles, although there’s no real joy in it.

“There are both advantages and disadvantages to growing up with a father who is an eccentric genius,” he says. “One of the first things he taught me was to observe. He did not always require my participation in our conversations, but he did always like me to watch and learn.”

Jason wonders idly how you can have a conversation between two people if one of them is not expected to participate. Then he shakes himself, realising that he’s concentrating on the wrong thing.

“So what do you intend to do?” he asks. “Are you going to tell Pythagoras what you’ve seen?”

“I should,” Icarus acknowledges. “Since he acknowledges that he is a medical practitioner it would seem foolish not to tell him. After all, he is likely to have some form of remedy to help you to become well again.”

Jason smiles humourlessly.

“He cannot help,” he replies quietly. “I have already been told by a doctor that there is nothing that can be done.”

“This was a good doctor? A doctor that you trust?”

“Yes,” Jason answers. “He was highly regarded and the illness that I have is something that he specialised in.”

Icarus licks his lips and stares out across the moonlit waves.

“Oh,” he says. “I am truly sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jason responds with a slight sigh. “I am used to it now.”

“I am still sorry,” Icarus says gently. He hesitates for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Jason replies.

“Why have you not told anyone? And why are we doing this?” Icarus gestures around himself at the _Argo_.

Jason is silent for a long moment. Long enough that Icarus begins to think he won’t answer at all.

“At first… when I first came to Atlantis… for a long time I didn’t feel unwell at all,” he says quietly. “I almost began to believe that the doctors I had seen where I come from had got it wrong… and the longer I left it, the harder it was to say anything… I _will_ tell them. I just want to be as normal as I can for as long as I can be.” He looks around the deck. “As for the rest of it… ever since I came here I’ve been told I have a destiny; a purpose. The Oracle… the last Oracle… told me it was my destiny to save Atlantis… to protect the people. I cannot leave them to suffer under Pasiphae. Ariadne is a good Queen. She does not want power in the way that Pasiphae does. She will devote her life to the city and its people. If I can make sure that she regains the throne – that she is safe and Pasiphae is defeated once and for all – then I will… even if I don’t get to be part of it afterwards.”

“Pythagoras is right,” Icarus murmurs.

“About what? Jason asks.

“You really are the noblest of all of us,” Icarus replies.

“And will you tell him what you have found out?”

Icarus hesitates for a moment.

“As I said before, I should,” he says slowly, “but I will not… for now at least.”

“Why not?” Jason asks.

“Because it is not my secret to tell,” Icarus answers simply. “But I think that he will know soon enough anyway… they all will… you will not be able to hide this forever and I suspect it will be better for everyone if you tell them yourself.”

 

* * *

 

The _Argo_ is beached at the island of Halonnesus for a day or two to allow them to restock their supplies. The King of this tiny island, Dexicos, has been alerted to their arrival and invited King Jason and Queen Ariadne and their retinue to dine with him. Jason notes the use of the title wryly – he supposes he should try to get used to it (even if it isn’t strictly accurate – he never actually got as far as receiving the blessing of the Gods and being officially declared King after all).

Leaving the ever loyal and helpful Diocles in charge to arrange for the supplies to be loaded, they are planning to set off for the Palace. Ariadne has put on the dress she was wearing when they escaped from Atlantis and has dressed her hair with the jewels she had carefully put away until now. She looks every inch the Queen and Jason feels almost like his heart will burst when he looks at her; she is so very beautiful.

He tells her so as he nuzzles into her neck (one of his favourite things to be honest). Ariadne playfully swats him and tells him not to mess up her hair. It’s all very light and very domestic and Jason is glad of it. There are times when their relationship is still a little rocky; when Ariadne still struggles with the doubts that Pasiphae put into her mind. It isn’t helped by the fact that, more often than not these days, she wakes up in the mornings to find that her husband is not in bed with her.

Jason knows that he should reassure her but he isn’t entirely sure how. He’s still struggling to find a way to tell her the truth; still hasn’t worked out what to say to her – or to any of his friends.

After their conversation of a few weeks ago, he knows that Icarus knows the truth (catches Icarus watching him at times) and the inventor’s son has been amazing actually. Icarus has become adept at diverting the conversation to let Jason slip away when he needs to and he has kept his promise and not told anyone Jason’s secret. He’s also taken to getting up early and coming up on deck to keep Jason company in the early mornings when he’s feeling at his worst.

Because Jason hasn’t told Ariadne what’s going on, he can’t explain why she wakes up alone so often. The truth is that most days he wakes up in the early hours of the morning with sharp and unrelenting pain in his chest (and sometimes his shoulders and back too) that takes his breath away and leaves him feeling like someone has set his lungs on fire. Then the coughing starts – persistent and painful. So he slides out of bed as soon as he wakes up, almost desperate not to disturb Ariadne’s slumber, and stumbles up onto the deck to try to ride out the pain (sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t).

The first time Icarus joined him, he brought with him one of Pythagoras’ painkilling tonics (filched from the mathematician’s stores somehow). Jason doesn’t know how Icarus knew it would be needed but he was incredibly grateful that he did.

Of course, Icarus wouldn’t be able to steal from Pythagoras’ supplies forever – at least not without the mathematician finding out. It had therefore been a surprise (shocking at the time but fortunate with hindsight) when Atalanta had approached Jason early one afternoon a couple of weeks ago now and pressed a small bottle into his hand out of sight of their other friends.

“What is this?” Jason had asked.

Atalanta had smiled enigmatically.

“My Goddess came to me,” she had said. “She told me that I must protect you from harm.”

“You told me that once before.”

“And it is still true,” Atalanta had replied. “She told me that I must join with you on your great journey and that I must help you wherever and however I can.”

She had looked out across the still ocean.

“I am a child of the Earth and I use the gifts that my Goddess Artemis has given me,” she went on, “and those gifts are great indeed… but they are not boundless.”

She had turned to look keenly at Jason.

“When Goddess came to me, she told me you were seeking to destroy the Golden Fleece,” she had said. “She also told me that you will face many trials… but that the greatest of them would come from within yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Jason had asked.

“I know what is wrong with you,” Atalanta had answered directly. “I wish that it was in my power to heal you… but it is not. Artemis has given me such gifts that allow me to heal injuries with her aid, but I cannot heal illnesses like yours. There are few indeed who do have that power.”

Jason had sighed.

“I don’t expect anyone to be able to help me,” he had replied softly. “I have known from the start what was likely to happen in the end. I know there’s nothing anyone can do and it’s alright… I have had enough time to get used to the idea. As long as I can finish what I started – destroy the Fleece, remove Pasiphae from Atlantis once and for all and see Ariadne returned to her rightful position – then that will be enough.”

“That in itself may not be easy,” Atalanta said. “My Goddess told me that you are in pain at times. The contents of the bottle should help.”

“Thank you,” Jason had answered honestly. “And… thank you for not asking why I haven’t told anyone too.”

“That is your business and your decision,” Atalanta replied. “As I told you, my Goddess told me that I must protect you from harm and that I will do to the best of my ability.”

She had wandered off to another part of the ship after that. Jason had watched her go thoughtfully. He was never totally sure what to make of her; Atalanta seemed half shrouded in mysticism at least half of the time – although he was more than willing to acknowledge her skill and ferocity as a warrior.

Ever since that encounter things have been a little easier. Whatever is in the bottle that Atalanta handed Jason, it’s pretty amazing stuff. Yes, he still stumbles out of bed and up onto the deck, breathless and in pain, but the tonic helps him return to as close to normal as possible a lot more quickly than he would have expected. It’s not perfect and he’s still pretty much constantly tired (and definitely lacking in appetite) but it at least allows him to function; to maintain the illusion that everything is alright.

Atalanta has replaced that first bottle twice so far, and so far it’s working.

This evening Jason feels better than he has in weeks. He’d rather be taking advantage of it and spending some quality time with Ariadne than going to some stuffy supper at King Dexicos’ Palace (he’s still not good at diplomacy and small talk). He nuzzles into Ariadne’s neck again, hoping to distract her. Ariadne giggles (a wonderful sound that Jason doesn’t hear nearly enough) and shoves him away.

“Stop it,” she admonishes, but her tone is playful rather than severe. “We do not have time for this. King Dexicos is expecting us.”

“Let’s stay here,” Jason replies.

Ariadne rolls her eyes.

“You know we cannot,” she says. “Dexicos has been kind enough to invite us to dine and we should not keep him waiting. We cannot afford to offend him Jason… not while our ship is beached on his land.”

“You are right,” Jason answers with a wry smile. “As always. You are much better at knowing who not to offend than I am. I am not sure I will ever get the hang of this diplomacy stuff.”

“Then it is lucky that you have me at your side,” Ariadne says playfully.

“I just wish we had a bit more time for us,” Jason murmurs.

“We will find the time,” Ariadne answers, “but not tonight.”

The Palace itself is far smaller than its counterpart in Atlantis; tastefully decorated and appointed. The furniture is of good quality but nowhere near as rich as Jason has seen in Ariadne’s Palace. Their hosts are pleasant people; welcoming and kind. The King is a scholar and is soon deep in conversation with Pythagoras, and the Queen is sweet and _very_ down to earth.

“So how long have you two been married?” she asks over dinner.

Ariadne smiles softly.

“Three months,” she replies.

“Just three months?” Queen Ismene murmurs. “Still in that first flush of young love.” She smiles a little naughtily. “I remember what it was like to be a newlywed,” she goes on. “The pleasure you take in each other’s company… and the desire not to be apart; to have time alone for just the two of you. I do not think that Dexicos and I left the bedroom for the first few months… apart from when he was attending to his other duties of course...”

Ariadne blushes deeply and prettily. Jason finds her captivating, although he would have to admit that his own face is heating up rapidly too.

Queen Ismene laughs brightly.

“Ah to be young again,” she murmurs.

The evening is a lot more pleasant than Jason had feared it would be. So when the disaster strikes it is both sudden and shocking. They are lingering in one of the Palace’s sitting rooms, drinking wine and enjoying good conversation.

Then Pythagoras smells smoke.

Within minutes the whole room is engulfed and a servant is stumbling in to tell the King that an oil lamp has been left unattended too close to a curtain and the Palace is on fire. They hurry towards the entrance only for Queen Ismene to gasp that her daughter is still inside (they were told earlier that the Princess was a little young to join them for supper so she is not with them now). Jason yells to Pythagoras and Hercules to make sure everyone gets to safety and then he’s off, racing back into the burning building with Hercules’ annoyed cry still ringing in his ears.

The corridors are filled with smoke and it’s getting harder to breathe but Jason pushes on, coughing sharply now and again. He senses someone at his shoulder as he runs, their feet pounding in time to his, and turns his head to find Icarus alongside him, his face set in grim determination.

It occurs to Jason as they run that he doesn’t actually know where the Princess is likely to be – or even where the royal chambers are. Running back into a burning building with no clear idea of where he is going is quite possibly one of his more stupid ideas but he’s sort of committed now.

Icarus grabs his arm.

“The royal chambers are to the west,” he grinds out.

“How do you know that?” Jason asks, grimacing at the rasp he hears in his own voice; the wheeze in his breathing.

“Because I asked the King before I followed you in here,” Icarus states grimly. He looks appraisingly at Jason. “You should go back,” he says. “I can find the Princess.

Jason glares at him but doesn’t slow his pace. Icarus is right but he isn’t about to admit it.

In one of the corridors near to where the royal chambers should be they encounter a young girl of about twelve or thirteen. She is beautifully dressed and looks enough like Queen Ismene that there can be no mistake that this is the girl they are looking for.

“Princess?” Icarus says.

“Who are you?” the girl demands. “And what is going on?”

“Your father sent us to fetch you My Lady,” Icarus replies respectfully but hurriedly. “The Palace is on fire.”

“Why should I believe you?” the girl asks. “You could have been sent to kidnap me.”

“If we had wanted to kidnap you we would have already done it,” Jason answers.

Smoke is beginning to drift up the corridor towards them and from somewhere behind them comes a cracking noise that Jason really doesn’t like the sound of. He exchanges a worried look with Icarus.

“Please My Lady,” Icarus says urgently. “We _must_ leave now. Your parents are in the courtyard in front of the Palace awaiting you. You must know that there will be guards at the doors too. Even if you do not trust us, we would hardly be taking you towards the guards if we were intending to kidnap you.”

The Princess stares at him for a moment and then nods her consent. They set off again at as fast a pace as they can (given that the child has shorter legs than either one of her male companions), retracing their steps towards the front of the building.

The smoke is even thicker now, making their eyes sting and stream and their breathing difficult. Icarus eyes Jason with worry. He can see that the other man is struggling much more than he is.

They round a corner and find the corridor ahead of them blocked by flames and burning debris.

“There’s another way,” the Princess yells above the roar of the fire. “Come on. It’s this way.”

She leads them back around the corner and through a door into a large chamber. On the far side is a smaller door and she races towards it confidently, the two men at her heels.

Through that doorway is a quiet corridor; a servant’s passageway, Jason decides. The air is clearer in the corridor (the smoke hasn’t really made it here yet) but he still feels like he’s struggling to catch his breath.

“We are nearly there,” the Princess states confidently (if a little breathlessly). “There is a room up ahead that we must go through which leads out into the entrance hall that leads on to the courtyard.”

They run on.

The corridor turns sharply to the right and they follow it, plunging through a small door in the wall into a dark room beyond. Unlike the corridor, this room is half filled with smoke – evidence that they are near the heart of the fire.

They are halfway across the room when Jason stumbles. Icarus doesn’t hesitate. He grabs hold of the back of his companion’s tunic and pulls him back to his feet, half dragging Jason across the room as he shoves the Princess ahead of him. They need to get out and they need to get out _now_. They’ve been in this building for far too long with the smoke clogging up their lungs.

The entrance hall outside the room is full of both smoke and people; servants and guards forming chains with buckets to try to douse the flames. Icarus can’t tell if it’s working but at least they are trying. A guard spots the three of them in the doorway to the chamber they have exited and comes hurrying over.

“Your Highness,” he greets the Princess. “Thank the Gods you are safe. We tried to get through to the royal chambers but the corridor is cut off by the fire.”

“Yes,” the girl replies. “I know. These men came to fetch me and we found our way out together.”

She gestures towards Icarus and Jason.

“The King and Queen are awaiting you in the courtyard, Your Highness,” the guard says. “They are most anxious for you.”

“Then I will go to them at once,” the Princess answers, coughing quietly.

Her face is smudged with soot and ashes cling to her hair and clothing. Icarus supposes that neither he nor Jason look any better. Jason starts to cough (a deep tearing sound that makes Icarus’ lungs ache just listening to it) and Icarus ducks his head under his friend’s arm without even thinking about it (because they _are_ friends now – the last couple of months travelling together on the _Argo_ has seen to that).

The three of them stumble out of the burning Palace into the torchlit courtyard. The Princess is immediately descended upon by her worried parents and whisked as far away from the building as possible while still remaining in the enclosure.

Jason drops to his hands and knees, coughing painfully and desperately trying to get more air into his tortured lungs. He senses Icarus sinking down beside him, also breathing hard, but can’t seem to summon up the energy to look; just trying to breathe is taking up his whole world.

He coughs again, feeling Icarus’ hand on his back, spluttering and spitting up more blood than he ever has before; an ever-growing puddle on the ground in front of him. Someone gasps, but Jason neither knows nor cares who it is. If he could just catch his breath he is sure he could ride this out, but he can’t and it hurts – oh God it hurts – more than it ever has before. It feels like he’s tearing apart inside. The lack of oxygen is making him increasingly light headed and his vision greys at the edges; black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

There are hands on his shoulders and a voice (desperation colouring its tone) urgently saying something to him, but Jason can’t focus enough to make sense of the words. Somewhere in his oxygen deprived brain he begins to think he might actually be dying.

With one last effort, Jason forces his head up and stares uncomprehendingly into Pythagoras’ fear filled blue eyes. He opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is a desperate wheezing that morphs into another tearing cough, bright blood spraying the front of Pythagoras’ tunic.

Jason wants to apologise (he wants to say sorry for so many things) but the blackness closes in on him and he pitches forwards into waiting unconsciousness. As he does, the last sound he hears is Hercules’ strangled cry.


	3. The End of the Beginning

 

Consciousness returns slowly and painfully. As Jason becomes more aware, sheer agony lances through his chest and he arches back on the bed, eyes still tightly closed.

A gentle hand appears behind his head, tilting it forwards firmly, as a cup is pressed to his lips.

“Drink,” a voice says kindly. “It will help.”

Jason parts his lips and the other person tilts the cup, a slow but steady flow of fluid pouring into his mouth, and swallows obediently when prompted; allowing himself to be fed the tonic like a baby bird or perhaps a small child.

When he has drunk what is deemed to be a suitable amount, the hand gently lowers him back onto a pillow, propped up to be almost sitting, and the voice admonishes him to rest.

Jason lies there for a few moments, allowing whatever was in the cup to begin to take effect, before trying to open his sleep encrusted eyes. He struggles with it until he hears his companion give a long suffering sigh.

“You really cannot do what you are told, can you,” the voice says with both exasperation and underlying fondness.

The bed moves slightly beneath Jason, as though someone is reaching for something, and then a damp cloth is wiped gently across his eyes, removing the gummy sleep and allowing him to open them.

He is lying in the bed he shares with Ariadne aboard the _Argo_. Pythagoras is perched on the edge, his face grave and his eyes worried.

The pain has receded into a dull ache and Jason opens his mouth to speak but finds himself dissolving into helpless coughing once more; his mouth filling with the copper tang of blood.

Pythagoras’ eyes narrow with concern, as he grabs a cloth from the side of the bed and holds it to his friend’s mouth.

“Do not try to speak,” he admonishes. “I am afraid the smoke has affected you quite badly.” He hesitates for a moment. “We need to talk,” he continues. “But you need rest first.”

As the coughing fit passes, Jason drops back against the pillows and watches his friend wearily.

Pythagoras busies himself with disposing of the bloodstained cloth and reaching for a cup of water, which he raises to Jason’s lips.

The water is cool and soothing as it slips down Jason’s throat and he blinks gratefully at his blonde friend.

“Pythagoras,” he tries.

His voice is little more than a breathless raspy whisper and the sheer effort it takes just to get out that one word is shocking.

“You really should not try to speak,” Pythagoras replies.

Jason licks his lips and tries again.

“You… know… don’t you?” he manages through heavy breaths.

Pythagoras looks back at him steadily, his eyes suspiciously bright and damp.

“I think so, yes,” he says softly, his voice sad. “We _will_ talk later… I believe that we have to… but for now just rest.”

Jason sighs but does lie back, too tired to do much else. He closes his eyes and drifts away, knowing that the conversation he has been dreading for weeks must happen once he is awake again.

 

* * *

 

“So what exactly is wrong with him?” Hercules growls grumpily.

Pythagoras takes no offence at his old friend’s tone; he knows from long experience that Hercules is at his gruffest when he is worried.

The central room tends to be the place where they gather and they are all there now: Pythagoras and Hercules, Icarus, Ariadne, Cassandra and Atalanta (although Pythagoras does wonder why the strange, half-wild huntress is there – she isn’t usually part of their inner group; their family). The only one missing is Jason.

They are back at sea again; the supplies have been loaded and King Dexicos and Queen Ismene have been left to rebuild their home. The fire gutted about a quarter of their Palace but, thanks to the work of the servants and guards, the royal chambers have remained untouched – and thanks to Icarus and Jason the Princess is safe.

Hours have passed since Jason first regained consciousness and he has been sleeping peacefully ever since Pythagoras spoke with him. The young genius is grateful for that fact but cannot help worrying about the state his friend is in. He knows – or thinks he knows – deep down that this is something serious (has suspicions about what it might be); now that he thinks about it the signs have been there for weeks and he wonders now how he never noticed them before. He had known that Jason seemed more tired than usual (of course he had known) – had put it down to the stress of leading this expedition – but he doesn’t know how he managed to miss the weight loss or the pain lurking in his friend’s hazel eyes; how he managed to miss Jason’s gradual deterioration.

“As I told you, Jason has been badly affected by the smoke he inhaled,” he says patiently, silently hoping that none of his friends will press for any more details until he has had a chance to speak to Jason properly.

“Why do I think that there is something you are keeping from me?” Ariadne questions suspiciously. “Pythagoras, if there is something I need to know then I must insist you tell me.”

Pythagoras silently curses Jason for putting him in this position. It seems distinctly unfair that he should have to be the one to talk to Jason’s wife in his friend’s place.

“Ariadne,” he begins (all titles have long since been forgotten between them – Ariadne insists that her given name is used when she is amongst friends).

“But Icarus was in there too,” Hercules protests loudly, interrupting. “Why hasn’t he been affected in the same way?”

“Perhaps… Icarus was… just… lucky.”

Pythagoras looks up sharply towards the doorway. Jason looks more than a little unsteady on his feet and his voice is quiet and breathless, but he is clearly determined to be here.

“Should you even be out of bed?” Icarus enquires mildly.

Jason shoots him an exasperated look.

“I am fine,” he mutters, although the fact that he has to stop to catch his breath makes his words less than convincing.

Pythagoras raises an eyebrow.

“Define ‘fine’,” he says with asperity.

“You are angry with me,” Jason states, still struggling for breath.

Pythagoras slams the cup he is holding down onto the table and turns back to glare at his friend.

“I think I have a right to be,” he says sharply. “After all you have been keeping a fairly major secret from me for how long?”

Jason bites his lip.

“I knew before I came to Atlantis,” he answers quietly, knowing that Pythagoras will not like his response.

Pythagoras sucks in an incredulous breath.

“The whole time you have been here,” he says disbelievingly. “All that time and you never said a word… you did not think to tell us.” He looks back at Jason with eyes that are full of sorrow. “Does my friendship mean so little to you?” he asks in a small voice.

Jason crosses the room and catches hold of the mathematician’s arm. He is as pale as a ghost and so short of breath that it is a moment before he can speak, but his grip on Pythagoras’ arm is certain; his hand warm and comforting.

“Your friendship means the world to me,” he says earnestly. He swallows hard before continuing. “When I first came here, I was still in denial. I didn’t want to believe that it was true… I mean I knew it was… but if I did not acknowledge it, then I could almost forget about it… and I felt so good that I began to think that they might have got it wrong.”

“But you did not really believe that,” Pythagoras replies softly. “Which is why you have always been so reckless… so disregarding of your own well-being.”

“Maybe,” Jason acknowledges. “It started getting worse just after we found _Argo_ … the night before we set sail actually… although maybe it had been getting a bit worse for a while and I just didn’t notice… I mean I just thought that I was tired before that… that everything was catching up with me…”

“Why did you not tell me then?” Pythagoras asks.

“Because I did not know how… Besides, I know how nervous everyone is about this journey… I was worried that the crew would start leaving if they thought that something wasn’t right… And I never wanted to see pity in your eyes… I never wanted you to see me as someone who was…”

Jason breaks off and looks away.

The room is silent for a moment. Ariadne looks around the room. Atalanta is watching the scene impassively yet knowingly, while Icarus is biting his lip. They clearly both know what’s going on (as does Cassandra but really that’s no surprise). The Queen’s eyes narrow.

“You never wanted Pythagoras to see you as someone who was what?” she demands. “Why do I get the feeling that I am the only one here who does not know what is going on?”

“You’re not the only one,” Hercules growls. “And I for one want to know what you are talking about.”

Jason swallows and crosses to his wife’s side. He reaches out and takes both her hands in his.

“You are so very beautiful,” he murmurs. “I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You tell me every day,” Ariadne points out. “And you are avoiding the question.”

“No I am not,” Jason replies softly. “I just want you to know that I love you,” he pauses for a moment, looking into Ariadne’s dark eyes with a wistful smile. “And that I am sorry,” he adds.

“Sorry for what?” Ariadne asks in confusion. “Jason, what is going on? You are scaring me.”

“I have never wanted to scare you,” Jason answers. “Or to hurt you for that matter.” He sways slightly on his feet and closes his eyes against the wave of light-headedness, still wheezing as he breathes. “Actually, would you mind if we sat down?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Ariadne replies, leading him to a bench and sitting down next to him.

She looks at her husband searchingly.

“We do not need to do this now,” she declares. “You are not well.”

“I am alright,” Jason protests.

“No you are not,” Ariadne states firmly. “I saw the blood Jason… I saw you collapse. I have never been so frightened.”

“I am sorry,” Jason murmurs. He reaches out with one hand to caress the side of her face. “This is all my fault.”

“What is wrong?” Ariadne asks. “Please… I need to know.”

Jason sighs.

“I have been selfish,” he replies quietly. “So very selfish.” He pauses and swallows hard. “I should never have married you.”

Ariadne’s blood runs cold. She recoils from her husband.

“This is about _her_ , isn’t it?” she demands. “You regret marrying me because of how you feel about her.”

“No!” Jason retorts sharply. “How many times do I have to tell you that I am not in love with Medea… I am in love with you.” He stops for a moment, panting slightly. “And I could _never_ regret marrying you… but that doesn’t alter the fact that it was selfish of me to do so.”

“Then what are you talking about?” Ariadne asks crossly.

“I am going to make you a widow before you have really had the chance to be a wife,” Jason answers quietly. “I have an illness… a disease. It started in my lungs but before anyone realised that I had it, it had spread. It is in both my lungs and has spread to the muscle beneath – the diaphragm – and into my chest wall… it may have spread further than that by now… I don’t really know to be honest. Anyway, by the time it was diagnosed it was already too late… there was nothing anyone could do.”

Ariadne stares at him in horror, her eyes beginning to fill with tears.

“It is karkinos then,” Pythagoras murmurs in the background. “I suspected as much when I saw how much blood you were coughing.”

Jason frowns for a moment, working out what his friend has said.

“I _think_ that is what _you_ would call it,” he says. “Where I come from we have a slightly different name.”

“So what are you saying?” Hercules demands. It’s clear to everyone that he knows the answer to his own question already but does not want to believe it.

Jason goes to speak but breaks off into a deep cough once again. He throws his hand up over his mouth, knowing that what is going to come out will not be pleasant to see. Icarus steps forwards and hands him a cloth – something that Jason is grateful for as it will hide the worst of what he is likely to cough up. He can feel Ariadne rubbing his back gently (almost too gently, as though she is afraid he will break if she rubs any harder) and wants to reassure her that he is alright but he really doesn’t have the breath.

Once the coughing fit subsides, he sits up properly and tries to hide the bloodstained cloth in his lap, aware that both Ariadne and Hercules’ eyes are on it.

“Sorry,” he gasps breathlessly.

“The smoke has irritated your lungs,” Pythagoras says bluntly as he pushes a cup of water across the table to Jason. “It will take several days for the irritation to subside – especially with your underlying condition.” He looks searchingly at Jason. “You should not really be out of bed yet,” he adds.

Jason nods. He turns to look at Hercules. The burly wrestler’s expression is stricken.

“Jason,” he begins.

“It’s alright,” Jason replies.

“How?” Hercules demands. “How is anything alright?” He turns to glare at Pythagoras. “There must be something you can do. You’ll think of something… you always do. There’s no man cleverer than you. You’ll think of something. I know you will. You have to.” There is desperation in his tone and Pythagoras exchanges a look with Jason, neither of them wanting to be the one to destroy their friend’s hope.

“There really is nothing that I can do,” Pythagoras says sorrowfully. “If there was anything – a _nything at all_ – I would do it... but there are no real effective treatments for this. There are many things that have been tried but nothing that I know of that has worked. From what I have read, it is believed that karkinos is caused by an excess of black bile in the body which causes growths to develop… but neither bloodletting nor balancing the humours in any other way has proved effective.” He glances at Jason. “The best that any practitioner of medicine can do is to provide pain relief and try to control and minimise the symptoms.”

“But…” Hercules begins.

“Hercules I am dying,” Jason says bluntly. He pauses for a moment as what he has just said hits him. “I’m dying,” he repeats more slowly. He swallows hard. “I’ve never said those words out loud before,” he admits. “I’ve always skirted around the issue.”

Pythagoras sits down opposite him and tries to smile, although it is not convincing.

“So,” the mathematician says. “Where do we go from here?”

Jason frowns.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Speaking as a physician, being on a ship on a long voyage is not the most comfortable place for someone to spend their last…” His voice falters.

“You mean you don’t think it is a comfortable place to die,” Jason clarifies with a half-smile. “I don’t see why not.” He looks around the room. “Seems fitting somehow,” he says. “I’ve spent a fair bit of my life at sea. The man who raised me owned his own ship. He taught me to love the ocean... And everyone that I really care about is here. Why would I want to be anywhere else? Besides… we still have a job to do – Pasiphae still needs to be defeated.”

“You can’t still be intending to go to Colchis now,” Hercules explodes. “You must be insane.”

“Probably,” Jason agrees. “But if we do not go to Colchis and we do not destroy the Golden Fleece, then Pasiphae will win.”

“So let her!” Hercules yells. “I say we take this ship and go and find somewhere comfortable and quiet, far from Atlantis, and settle there.”

He is angry at the situation (at the world) rather than at his friend and the explosion was inevitable. Jason takes no offence.

“Perhaps Hercules is right,” Ariadne murmurs. “This is a battle we cannot win and at least we will be together when…” She breaks off as she breaks down.

Jason throws his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close, resting her head on his shoulder and murmuring something that only she can hear into her hair.

He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, it is with the look of grim determination that his friends have become used to (and come to dread). He looks at the until now silent Cassandra.

“What will happen if we do not destroy the Golden Fleece and do not defeat Pasiphae?” he asks, in the tone of one who already knows the answer to his question.

Cassandra looks at him with her clear, wide eyes.

“Atlantis will be destroyed and thousands will perish,” she states. “The Gods are angry. They threaten vengeance and desolation. Their voices are raging. They say that until the witch Queen is vanquished and the true heir is restored, the people of Atlantis will never know peace. They threaten to fall on the city and their revenge will be terrible.”

“So we go on,” Jason says firmly.

“But does it have to be us that destroy the Fleece?” Icarus asks seriously. “I understand why you want to do this,” he continues, looking at Jason. “I know what you are trying to do… but does it have to be us... have to be _you_ that does it?”

“The Gods have spoken,” Cassandra says. “Only the combined power of the son of Poseidon and the daughter of Hekate will see the source of Pasiphae’s power destroyed. For neither can succeed without the help of the other.”

“Then we really do have no choice,” Jason replies. “Or at least I do not.” He breaks off again with a brief but painful sounding cough.

“It would seem not,” Pythagoras murmurs. He looks sharply at his younger friend, taking in the weary slump to the shoulders and the little lines of pain that have deepened around Jason’s eyes.

“If we are to do this… if we are to go to Colchis,” he continues firmly, “then you must rest and regain your strength now. Your lungs will have been weakened further by the fire. Allow yourself a few days to recover… and I will do all I can to help.”

“Pythagoras is right,” Ariadne chimes in before Jason can respond. “We are at sea with nothing immediately pressing. We should all take the opportunity to rest for a day or two.”

“You are both right,” Jason acknowledges. “And I am not even going to try to fight you.”

He catches an anxious look that Pythagoras throws to Hercules.

“What?” he asks.

“It always concerns me when you give in without a fight,” Pythagoras admits.

Jason chuckles, but once again it turns into a brief wracking cough.

“Let’s just say that I am learning when to pick my battles,” he says.

Pythagoras stares at him for a moment and then snorts with laughter. He catches Icarus’ confused look and tries to sober up.

“I am sorry,” he says, “but I am sure that I can recall an occasion when you attacked an entire patrol single handed.”

Jason gives Ariadne an awkward glance.

“To be fair, I wasn’t entirely myself at the time,” he mutters.

“We do not need to talk about that now,” Ariadne says firmly, almost daring the others to argue with her.

Jason nods.

“If that’s decided, then I think I am going to go and lie down for a bit,” he says. “I am quite tired.”

 He pushes himself up from the table. His breathing is still shallower than it should be and the lack of oxygen makes him dizzy, making him sway unsteadily. Hercules is there immediately, dragging Jason’s arm across his shoulders and wrapping an arm securely around his friend’s waist.

“Come on,” he growls. “Back to bed with you.”

Jason tries to smile at him, although it lacks its usual brilliance, and heads off to the room he shares with his wife with Hercules supporting him and Ariadne following, leaving his other friends lost in silent thought.

 

* * *

 

Ariadne enters the central room with a heavy heart, silently closing the door to her room behind her. At the table Atalanta is making arrows; sharpening the points with her knife. Ariadne sits down and watches her for a moment before reaching out and grabbing an arrow shaft and a second knife off the table. She is glad to be doing something – especially something that doesn’t require a great deal of thought. Atalanta stops and watches her for a moment, her expression (unseen by Ariadne) both knowing and sad.

“You are tired,” the huntress observes at length.

Ariadne looks up, startled.

“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”

“You are not sleeping?”

“Jason had a bad night,” Ariadne answers. “He was in pain and breathless. He feels guilty for keeping me awake but I would far rather that than to wake up alone and not knowing where he is.” She glances at the door she entered through. “He is sleeping now.”

“You love him very much,” Atalanta says.

“With all my heart,” Ariadne replies.

“And it hurts you to see him suffer… yet you try not to let anyone see it. You are very brave.”

“Not really,” Ariadne says. She sighs. “My life has taught me that the future is so very uncertain. All we have is the here and now, because we do not know what will come tomorrow. Every day is precious and must be enjoyed… I do not know what the future may bring but we are here together now… and that is enough… There will be time enough for tears later.”

Atalanta reaches out and takes another arrow shaft from the table.

“There is more, is there not?” she says.

Ariadne closes her eyes for a moment and turns her head away. When she looks back she finds that Atalanta is directing a clear-eyed unblinking gaze in her direction.

“I tried to deny my feelings for Jason for so long,” Ariadne murmurs, her voice full of emotion. “I pushed him away because I was scared of how people might judge me. I believed that our love would weaken my position because the nobility would never accept Jason; that I would not be able to protect my people properly because of it… but Eurydice was right…” she is speaking more to herself than Atalanta now and doesn’t bother to explain who Eurydice was. “She said that love was as destructive as it was harmonious and that it would not be denied… I wasted so much time… and now I begrudge every moment when we should have been together and were not.” She swallows hard. “It is hard,” she admits, “watching the person you love most in the world slipping away piece by piece… watching him grow weaker with every day that passes. I had thought it was difficult when my father was ill but this is so much harder.”

“And what would you do if there was a chance to save him? To cure him?” Atalanta asks softly, her eyes intent.

Ariadne stifles a cry and brings her hand up over her mouth.

“I would give _anything_ to save Jason,” she gasps. “You know of a way, don’t you?” She reaches out and grabs Atalanta’s arm.

“Ever since I was abandoned in the forest as a child my Goddess Artemis has walked at my side,” the huntress replies obliquely. “She talks to me… she came to me and told me that if I wish to cure Jason I must speak with Poseidon’s Oracle… that I must ask her about the Temple of Hera.”

Ariadne feels the first surging of hope in her heart, although she tries to clamp down on it before is overcomes her. She gets up from the table. As she does, Icarus wanders in.

“The helmsman says we are not far from an island,” he says. “He wants to know if we should make landfall here or carry on.”

Ariadne hurries over to him and clasps his hand.

“Icarus I need you to find the Oracle for me and bring her in here,” she says urgently.

Icarus frowns.

“What is wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Ariadne assures him. “But I must speak with her urgently. I have a question that only she can answer.”

The young man looks at her searchingly, nods and rushes back out of the room. He returns in incredibly quick time with Cassandra in tow. Both Pythagoras and Hercules hurry in with them.

“What is wrong?” Pythagoras asks quickly. “Icarus said that it was urgent.”

Atalanta gives a faint and mysterious smile. She looks straight at Cassandra.

“My Goddess told me to ask you about the Temple of Hera,” she says.

“The Temple of Hera,” Cassandra echoes. “It is far from here and will require all our courage to reach… but we must journey there. Only there will we find the means to pass the sirens.”

“The sirens!” Hercules exclaims. “We want to avoid _them_. Going near the sirens is suicide! It’s worse than suicide… whatever that might be.”

“But we must pass them if we are to journey to Colchis and then return to Atlantis,” Cassandra says. “In the Temple of Hera, we will find a lyre that can silence the sirens.”

“My Goddess Artemis told me that there is a cup in the Temple of Hera that I must ask you about,” Atalanta says softly.

“The cup of Panacea,” Cassandra replies, her voice mysterious. “Daughter of Asclepius and Goddess of the remedy to cure all ills. It is in the Temple of Hera.”

“What does this cup do?” Ariadne demands.

“It can heal even mortal illness,” Cassandra responds.

A ripple of surprise (and hope) runs around the room

“Why didn’t you tell us about this before?” Hercules demands. “What are we waiting for?”

“The Gods choose when to reveal things to me,” Cassandra answers. “I must obey their will and listen to their instructions. They did not choose to allow me to see the cup before. My vision has been clouded of late. I must warn you now, though. There is a price to pay for using the cup of Panacea… and the price is high indeed. It will require great sacrifice.”

“And what is this price?” Ariadne asks.

“In return for allowing someone to be healed with the cup, the Fates demand an exchange,” Cassandra says. “A life for a life… and it must be the life of someone who cares for the person being healed. That is the price of using Panacea’s remedy.”

Ariadne swallows hard and closes her eyes for a moment.

“Very well,” she says.

“Jason will never agree to that,” Pythagoras points out. “He will never allow anyone to sacrifice themselves for him.”

“Then we do not tell him,” Ariadne answers simply. She looks at Cassandra. “You say that we must go to this Temple anyway.”

Cassandra’s smile is otherworldly.

“Yes,” she replies. “For only there will you find the means to continue. We will not be able to pass the sirens without the lyre from the Temple.”

“Where is this Temple?” Hercules asks.

“To the north,” Cassandra answers. “On the borders of the lands of the barbarians.”

“You can guide us there?” Ariadne asks.

Cassandra nods in response.

“We go north then,” the Queen decides. She turns towards Icarus. “Tell the helmsman that we will make landfall to re-provision… and tell him that he needs to prepare to set a course to the north once we are ready to set off again.”

Icarus offers her a smile and nods. He sweeps out of the room taking Cassandra with him to make sure the course they are plotting is correct. Atalanta gathers up her arrows, gives Ariadne an enigmatic smile and leaves with them.

Ariadne turns back to find Pythagoras and Hercules both watching her intently.

“Are you alright?” the young genius asks her.

“Yes,” Ariadne answers. “As well as I can be… I have hope now, which is more than I had when I got up this morning…”

“What are we going to tell Jason?” Hercules asks. He looks around. “And where is Jason anyway?”

“Sleeping I hope,” Ariadne responds.

Pythagoras looks at her shrewdly.

“He did not have a good night?” he asks.

“No,” Ariadne replies. “It was the worst night we have had in weeks… probably the worst since that fire. He was in a great deal of pain.”

Pythagoras frowns, mind clearly already in healer mode.

“I will look at strengthening the tonics,” he says.

“As for what we tell Jason,” Ariadne murmurs. “We will tell him about the Temple and the lyre… but we will _not_ tell him about the cup of Panacea.” She glances at the door of the room she shares with her husband. “I do not want to raise his hopes until we are certain that we can use the cup and I do not want to give him the chance to object,” she continues. “You have said often enough that Jason has always been stubbornly ruled by his heart and I do not believe that he will _ever_ accept any of _us_ choosing to risk our lives for _him_.”

Hercules rests his hands on the table and leans on them. He blows out a long breath.

“So we do what we’ve always done,” he rumbles. “We protect Jason… even if that means protecting him from his own idiotic sense of honour… We protect him from himself.”

 

* * *

 

Why is it that strange and mystical temples are always deep in the woods? Jason can’t help wondering this as they creep towards the structure.

They’ve pulled the _Argo_ up onto a beach in a small secluded cove and a small group of them have headed off to search for the Temple of Hera, leaving Diocles in charge.

This is Scythian territory so they need to be careful; want to try to avoid any encounters if they can help it. Hercules is stumping along at the rear of their little group while Icarus scouts ahead. It is a task that the young man has volunteered for. Jason would normally like to do it himself but even he can see the wisdom of letting someone else take the lead at the moment.

Today is quite a good day so far. In the past couple of months since everyone learned the truth, he’s had more bad days than he would have liked – days when he just can’t seem to catch his breath; when it hurts so badly it’s all he can do not to scream; days when everything is just too much effort and exhaustion grips him. He’s lost a lot of weight too (knows it because his clothes and armour are far looser than they used to be) and never seems to have much of an appetite to speak of. Sometimes he catches one of his friends watching him anxiously and wants to reassure them that everything will be alright – but really, how can he?

This morning though, he feels just a little bit tired rather than downright unwell and he’s glad of it because there’s work to be done. He glances around the group, mentally assessing their strengths. Atalanta and Ariadne are both carrying bows (Ariadne is dressed in a man’s tunic and trousers that she’s managed to find from somewhere and damn it all but even dressed like that she’s still the most beautiful thing Jason’s ever seen), and Hercules, Pythagoras, Icarus and Jason himself all have their swords. The weakest link (as far as Jason can see) is Cassandra. To be honest he’s been a bit worried about bringing the (unarmed) Oracle of Poseidon into a potentially dangerous situation.

So far everything seems to be going well (almost too well, the cynical part of his mind thinks) and now they have arrived at the Temple of Hera without ever seeing a Scythian (and Jason thanks whatever Gods might be listening for that small mercy).

The building itself is surprisingly well kept and brightly lit. The priest who greets them at the door shows no surprise at their arrival and directs them straight into the main body of the Temple. Jason is immediately suspicious – his luck is never this good.

“Welcome to the Temple of Hera,” the priest intones.

His voice is very deep and sonorous and reminds Jason of Melas (he wonders if it’s a qualification that all chief priests need). From the look on Cassandra’s face it seems that he isn’t the only one who sees the likeness.

“My name is Brygos and I am the High Priest. Ask what you will of me. I am bound by my duty to the Goddess to answer.”

“You know who we are?” Jason asks suspiciously.

A smile touches Brygos’ lips.

“Indeed,” he says. “Your coming here has long been foretold. You have the favour of Hera.”

Jason tries to keep himself from visibly grimacing; he has been in ancient Greece for long enough to know that to be favoured by the Gods (to even be noticed by them) is a double edged sword.

“My Lady.” Brygos turns to Cassandra reverently and genuflects deeply. “Our Temple is honoured by your presence.”

“You have what we are here for?” Cassandra asks softly.

“Everything is in readiness, My Lady,” the priest answers. “It has long been known that you would one day come to retrieve both the items that are in our care.”

“Forgive me, I think you have made a mistake,” Jason says with some confusion. “We have come in search of a lyre that can see us safely past the sirens. Nothing else.”

Brygos turns and gives him a knowing look.

“What you require is here,” he says. “Come, I will take you to it.”

He ushers them towards a side chamber, moving quickly enough that Jason finds himself growing short of breath once more as he tries to keep up.

“Do you have any trouble with the Scythians?” Pythagoras asks the priest as they walk.

“They usually leave us alone,” Brygos answers. “While they do not worship the Gods, they also do not wish to risk angering them. They have attacked the Temple twice over the past few years but were repelled on both occasions.”

They enter the side chamber and Brygos makes his way to a small altar in the centre of the room. On the altar is a golden lyre, beautifully decorated, and a small, non-descript earthenware kylix – a broad bowl-shaped vessel with a handle on each side and a foot at the base. It is plain and unadorned – peasant ware – yet Ariadne finds her eyes being drawn to it.

“The lyre is yours to take,” Brygos says gently, “but the cup must remain here once the ritual is completed.”

“What ritual?” Jason asks. He looks around the group suddenly realising that he’s the only one in the room who doesn’t seem to know what’s going on (and that is most definitely an uncomfortable feeling).

“The cup belongs to Panacea, daughter of Asclepius,” Pythagoras explains in his ‘school-teacher’ voice.

Jason looks confused.

“Wait… who’s Asclepius?” he asks.

Hercules snorts and shakes his head.

“I will never cease to be amazed by your ignorance and stupidity,” he says.

Jason ignores him and looks back at Pythagoras (on the whole he’s got better at not asking what Hercules deems to be stupid questions over the last year or so and doesn’t often hear the bulky wrestler bemoaning his ignorance these days).

“He is the God of the healing arts,” Pythagoras explains.

“And Panacea is his daughter?” Jason asks.

“Yes,” Pythagoras responds. “Goddess of universal remedy. It is said that she can heal any illness.”

“How?” Jason asks. He can’t help but be interested under the circumstances; can’t help but hope that Pythagoras is right.

“It is said that she uses a poultice or potion, depending upon the illness,” Pythagoras murmurs. “Cassandra has told us that this cup is the vessel for Panacea’s remedy. She foresaw us using it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” Jason demands.

“Because hope is a fickle mistress,” Pythagoras replies. “I did not know if we would be able to retrieve the cup or not and it seemed cruel to get your hopes up when it might have come to nothing.”

“So the story about needing the lyre to get past the sirens was a lie then?” Jason asks.

“No,” Pythagoras insists. “It was all true. Cassandra’s gifts make her incapable of lying.”

“Come,” Brygos interrupts them softly. “We must prepare for the ritual.”

“What is this ritual?” Jason enquires.

“The blood of the person who is to be healed must be mingled with the blood of the sacrifice and added to the kykeon within the cup and Panacea called upon to bless it,” Brygos replies. “Then it must be drunk for its healing power to take effect.”

“Sacrifice?” Jason asks suspiciously.

“The Fates demand a price for altering the natural course of events,” Cassandra murmurs quietly, although her voice is heard clearly. “They demand a blood sacrifice. A life for a life.”

Jason stares at her with growing horror, before turning back to his other friends angrily.

“So you are telling me that someone has to die for this to work?” he demands. “Did you actually think I would go along with this?”

“Jason,” Ariadne begins.

“No,” Jason growls, beyond angry. “This is _not_ happening. I am sorry but if the price is someone’s life then I am not paying it!”

 “So the rest of us are supposed to just sit around and do nothing?” Hercules responds hotly. “You expect us to watch you die without trying to stop it?”

Before Jason can respond, Icarus bursts into the chamber. He had chosen to keep a lookout at the main door of the Temple but now he has left his post.

“We have company,” he blurts. “There is a hoard of Scythians heading this way.”

Jason glares at his companions briefly. He’s still pretty pissed off at them but there are more pressing concerns right now. He turns back to Icarus.

“Show me,” he says.

They hurry out of the chamber and back across the main Temple to the doors. Jason peers out through the crack in the door to look at the approaching Scythians. It is a raiding party and contains more men than he would like to see. He swears loudly and slams the door.

“Right,” he says, turning back to the room. “It looks like they’re aiming for the Temple all right.” He looks apologetically at Brygos. “They may have stumbled across our tracks and followed us here.”

“It is of no matter,” the priest replies. “No doubt they would have attacked us sooner or later anyway.”

“How many of them are there?” Pythagoras asks.

“More than I would really like to be facing,” Jason admits. “The only advantage we’ve got is that they will only be able to get through the door a few at a time.” He turns to Atalanta and Ariadne. “I know this room is a little small for archery but do what you can. Pick as many as you can off as they come through the doors. You will not get all of them but hopefully it should still whittle them down a bit.”

He moves over to Cassandra and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“We will try to protect you if we can,” he says, “but I do not know how successful we will be.”

“Do not worry,” Brygos says in his deep, mellifluous voice. “The Gods will protect her… as will I.”

Jason isn’t sure how much protection the priest will be but beggars can’t be choosers so he nods his agreement and turns back to face the main doors, taking up a position beside Hercules.

“You shouldn’t be in the forefront of this,” the big man mutters. “You should stay back and protect the Oracle.”

Jason shoots him an irritated look. He knows that Hercules is only speaking out of concern but this really isn’t the time or place.

Then the door bursts open and Scythian warriors burst in, and there isn’t time left to think. The world reduces to the battle that rages around Jason (as it so often does when he is in the middle of a skirmish). As he predicted, the Scythians can only come through the door a few at a time and they are met with a barrage of arrows from Atalanta and Ariadne (and just how _does_ Atalanta manage to fire so fast and so accurately? Her hands are almost a blur). It reduces their numbers significantly – although enough still get through to keep the men in the group busy too.

The Scythians seem to be never-ending. As Jason hacks and stabs and parries, he can feel himself tiring rapidly, his breath coming in short panting gasps that catch in the back of his throat. It feels like he’s caught in a vice; like there’s an ever-tightening band of metal around his chest and no matter how hard he tries he just can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs. He’s growing increasingly dizzy and off balance, still fighting but losing all finesse and grace. When he looks up though, he can see a light at the end of the tunnel: no more Scythians are pouring in through the door; they have nearly beaten them.

He turns to face another attacker; a burly man with no hair and very few teeth dressed in badly cured animal skins. Jason is flailing a little more than usual but still has more than enough skill to dispatch this Scythian to Hades.

Then it happens. As they both turn, the Scythian manages to catch Jason on the side of the head with the butt of his sword. He stumbles back against a pillar, forcefully driving what is left of his breath from his lungs. His sword tip lowers to the floor and he stares blankly at the Scythian warrior, stunned; trying to draw in a breath that doesn’t want to come. The Scythian gives a feral smirk and raises his sword, preparing to drive it through Jason’s body.

As he strikes, though, Atalanta manages to get there, stepping between Jason and the Scythian. The sword sinks into her stomach even as she drives the arrow she is holding through the Scythian’s throat, killing him. She staggers backwards, hands clutching the wound in her abdomen that is pouring blood, and collapses against a wall. Jason vaguely hears Hercules’ enraged cry as he takes on the last of the Scythians but cannot focus on anything apart from the fallen woman. He crawls across to her and sits at her side, hearing only his own wheezing breathing, his vision blurring alarmingly as he moves.

Atalanta smiles that mysterious, enigmatic smile she sometimes gives.

“I have done what my Goddess requested of me,” she gasps, back arching slightly as she rides out a wave of agony.

The wound in her stomach is clearly fatal and she knows it. Jason can’t bring himself to lie to her – to tell her that everything will be alright – and, even if he wanted to, he simply doesn’t have the breath right now to form a full sentence.

“You… have,” he manages to pant.

Atalanta’s clear eyes meet his and her smile widens slightly. She reaches out with one blood-stained hand and grazes the knuckles down the side of his face in a soft caress, the same way she did the first time she saved his life – when she healed him back in the Forest of Calydon more than a year ago.

“My Goddess Artemis told me that I must protect you from harm,” she says, echoing her words from that first meeting. “I have done all I can. Now you must go on to Colchis and destroy the Fleece.”

 Jason nods wordlessly. A solid lump seems to be sitting in his throat and tears are slipping down his cheeks. The world seems to have narrowed down to just the two of them. He knows that the rest of his companions are still nearby (and possibly still fighting Scythians) but all that seems to matter to him right now is the dying woman in front of him.

“I hope you find peace with your Goddess,” he says hoarsely (and it is not lost on him that he has said these words before – only then it was under very different circumstances and to a very different woman).

“She has been at my side all my life. She will not leave me now,” Atalanta assures him.

She looks over Jason’s shoulder at something that he suspects only she can see and her smile grows very bright. Then the light in her eyes dims and slowly flickers out as her breathing stills, head dropping forwards onto her chest, face hidden by the curtain of her long hair.

“Is everyone alright?” Jason can hear Pythagoras in the background, checking on his companions.

Then Ariadne gasps and Hercules gives a strangled cry. Jason can’t seem to summon up the energy to look up to see where they are; can’t take his eyes off Atalanta’s still body. He is exhausted and his breath is coming in short wheezing pants, and it would be all too easy to lie down next to the huntress and let himself drift.

A hand on his shoulder startles him back into some form of reality and he looks up to find Brygos watching him with concern and compassion. The priest is carrying the kylix from the altar, which he uses to gather up some of Atalanta’s blood. Jason watches him dumbly, feeling he should probably protest but not quite being able to form the words.

“Give me your hand,” Brygos instructs, turning back to Jason. “Quickly now.” He looks at Atalanta’s body and then back to the young man. “She gave her life for you… do not let her sacrifice be in vain.”

He takes a knife from Cassandra, who is hovering behind him, and grabs hold of Jason’s wrist with his free hand, turning it so the young man’s hand is palm up and holding it tightly in place. He draws the blade across Jason’s palm, maintaining his grip on Jason’s wrist when the young man flinches, and hands the knife back to Cassandra, closing his now empty hand around Jason’s and forcing it into a fist; applying pressure to Jason’s fingers to force the blood to drain from the cut on his palm into the cup.

Moving swiftly, Brygos hands the cup to Cassandra and stands. As Jason watches, body and mind heavy, the chief priest goes to join the girl. Cassandra places the kylix on the main bomos and stands back with her hands outstretched at her sides, as Brygos comes forwards and stands before the altar, hands raised in supplication, palms upwards, and begins to chant; to pray to Panacea for her blessing.

Ariadne has come to join Jason where he is sitting (half slumping really). She nestles into his side and wraps her arm around his waist. Jason leans into her, resting his head against her shoulder and lets his eyes drift closed, only to open them again at the feel of her hand carding through his hair. He still can’t seem to get enough air and it almost feels like his lungs are full of fluid (wonders idly if this is what drowning feels like).

The chanting finishes and Brygos strides back across the room carrying the cup, coming to a stop before the young couple and dropping down to his knees. Pythagoras hovers near his shoulder.

“Drink,” the priest says firmly, holding the kylix up to Jason’s lips.

Jason swallows a mouthful, gags and tries to turn his head away, only to be thwarted when the priest’s other hand catches the back of his neck and holds him firmly in place.

“You must drink all of it,” Brygos instructs.

Jason frowns but does as he’s told. As the last disgusting mouthful goes down, a wave of burning heat sweeps over him and agony grips him. He stares at the priest desperately, unable to speak. He is on fire and the only sound that he can still hear is his own laboured breathing. The world darkens around him and his vision shuts down as his heart begins to slow, stutter and finally to stop altogether, and he slumps forwards into Brygos’ waiting arms.

“What have you done?” Pythagoras demands, horrified, reaching out to pull the priest away from his friend.

“Wait,” Brygos commands harshly, eyes intently watching the still form in his arms.

He lays Jason gently on the ground, his head in Ariadne’s lap, and straightens, muttering prayers.

“You must trust him,” Cassandra says as the priest continues to chant softly. “He knows what he is doing. It is all in the hands of Panacea now.”

Brygos falls silent, still watching Jason. For a long moment nobody moves, then Jason’s eyes fly open as he draws in a great gasping breath. Ariadne gives a low cry and reaches out to her husband, watching as he rapidly regains the colour he has lost over the past few weeks; his lips and fingertips changing from the slightly blue tint they have had lately into a healthy pink. Jason takes several deep breaths before pushing himself back into a sitting position, legs bent and arms resting on his knees.

“What just happened?” he asks, his voice strong and firm – lacking the breathless quality that it has held too often recently.

“You died,” Ariadne half sobs, her fear still evident.

Jason blinks.

“What?” he asks.

“Panacea consented to help us and blessed the remedy,” Brygos answers. He looks sadly at Atalanta’s body. “The price was high indeed, but the reward was also great.” He turns back to Jason. “Live long and live well,” he says. “You carry Hera’s blessing and favour with you.”

 

* * *

 

Pythagoras slips up onto the main deck of the _Argo_ in search of his friend. It is late in the evening three days since they laid Atalanta to rest and set sail once more. The stars shine brightly in the heavens and the waves lap gently against the side of the ship.

He finds Jason sitting in the prow, looking up at the stars, his eyes lost in thought, and stops for a moment to watch his friend. Jason looks healthier than he has for a long time. He’s still painfully thin and probably will be for a while yet – his appetite has returned with a vengeance (much to everyone’s pleasure) but regaining lost weight takes time (time that Pythagoras is more than happy to think that his friend now has). Still, he no longer has a drawn look about him; his eyes are bright and he has colour in his cheeks once more. He turns his head and smiles widely as he spots Pythagoras peering at him and waves his friend over to join him.

Pythagoras smiles and moves forwards, settling himself down comfortably alongside Jason.

“Ariadne will be wondering where you have got to,” the mathematician says lightly.

“I was just looking at the stars,” Jason answers. “I’ll be in in a moment.”

They lapse into silence for a few minutes. Presently, Pythagoras looks across at his friend, noting that Jason appears to have lost himself in thought once more.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Jason looks at him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was just thinking about Atalanta.”

“She was an incredible woman and a fine warrior,” Pythagoras replies.

“She was,” Jason says. “I hope she has found peace… That her Goddess came for her.”

“I do not think you need to worry about Atalanta,” Pythagoras answers, looking up at the stars. “I was speaking with Cassandra earlier and she told me that Atalanta was destined for the Isles of the Blessed.”

“The Isles of what?” Jason asks with a confused look.

“The Isles of the Blessed,” Pythagoras replies. “When we die,” he continues, “we are taken across the river into Hades.”

“Yes I know,” Jason answers. “I have been there, remember?”

“Within Hades, the worst souls – those destined for eternal torment – go to Tartarus,” Pythagoras goes on.

“Been _there_ too,” Jason mutters.

Pythagoras ignores the interruption.

“The souls of those who have lead a good life go to Elysium,” he says. “It is the part of Hades reserved for those who deserve it.” He looks straight at Jason. “But the greatest souls – the bravest heroes – do not go to Hades at all… they go to the Isles of the Blessed – the Fortunate Isles. They are a winterless earthly paradise where the heroes of legend live forever with all the pleasures they could ever wish. Atalanta will be reunited with her Goddess there.”

Jason smiles softly and nods.

“Good,” he says. “That is good.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments longer, both looking at the stars and thinking.

“So what now?” Pythagoras asks, half turning his head to look at his friend. “Where do we go from here?”

“Colchis,” Jason answers with certainty. “We find the Golden Fleece and we end this.”

“And after that?” Pythagoras says. “What will you do once we have defeated Pasiphae once and for all?”

Jason blinks.

“I… don’t know,” he says slowly. “It has been so long since I actually thought I had a future that I have never let myself think that far ahead.”

Pythagoras grins. He gets up and turns, offering his friend a hand to pull him to his feet.

“Well you had better start thinking about it,” he advises, “because I suspect that sooner or later Ariadne is going to want to start thinking about the next heir to Atlantis.”

He laughs at Jason’s startled expression and claps his friend on the back as they head below decks together.

 

* * *

 

Jason stands in a window overlooking the city with his new-born daughter in his arms. From up here Atlantis is beautiful and in the distance, beyond the city walls, he can see the sea; the bright moonlight dancing on the crests of the waves.

“This will all be yours one day,” he murmurs softly.

The baby blinks at him sleepily and yawns. Jason looks down at her and smiles, rocking her gently. A soft noise behind him alerts him to someone’s presence.

“I thought we would find you here.” Pythagoras speaks quietly, in deference to the late hour.

“I wanted to show her Atlantis,” Jason replies, tearing his eyes from his daughter to look out at the view again.

“How is Ariadne?” Hercules rumbles from somewhere behind Pythagoras.

“Sleeping,” Jason murmurs, smiling down at his daughter. “She’s been a bit busy today.”

He turns to face his friends with an enormous smile and eyes full of wonder.

“Would you like to meet our daughter?” he asks.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Hercules grumbles, but he still reaches out to take the baby off Jason and turns away, cooing at the child.

“Does she have a name yet?” Pythagoras asks, coming up to Jason and slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“Give us a chance,” Jason answers. “She’s only two hours old.”

“I’d have thought you would have already picked out a name,” Hercules says, rocking the baby. He looks down at the tiny child. “You’re a beautiful girl, aren’t you? Yes you are. Yes you are.”

Jason grimaces.

“We couldn’t agree on one we both liked before she was born,” he admits.

His two closest friends exchange a look.

“What?” Jason asks.

“Jason… it is tradition that the father names a child,” Pythagoras says. “It is his sole prerogative.”

Jason frowns.

“Without even talking to the mother?” he asks incredulously. “I couldn’t do that to Ariadne,” he adds, shaking his head. “She has as much right as I do to pick out a name.”

“It is very nice that you should feel that way but it is not customary,” Pythagoras states.

Hercules snorts – albeit quietly to avoid waking the now sleeping baby in his arms.

“Since when has he ever worried about custom?” he demands. “I’m still amazed that the nobles didn’t have apoplexy the first time they met him properly after Pasiphae was _finally_ defeated.”

“They nearly did when they realised that Ariadne and I share the same bedroom all the time. They thought we should have separate rooms and only share a bedroom when… well… you know,” Jason mutters. “They seemed pretty horrified that we only have one set of chambers between us. Apparently it’s ‘unseemly’.”

“You should try not to antagonise them too much,” Pythagoras advises. “You still need their support.”

“I know that,” Jason answers. “And I do not intend to upset them… but mine and Ariadne’s sleeping arrangements are our business and nobody else’s. How we choose to live in our own home is for us to decide. I will do everything that is required of me in public but my private life is my own affair.”

Pythagoras chooses to let the subject drop. He can see Jason’s point (and privately agrees with him) but his friend still hasn’t fully grasped the fact that as King his life is no longer completely his own.

“Ariadne is in good health then?” he asks. “I can see that the babe is well enough, but the birth itself… it went well?”

“Yeah,” Jason replies. “I don’t think the midwives like me very much at the moment though.”

“What did you do?” Pythagoras says with resignation.

“Nothing,” Jason answers defensively. “It’s just that they were trying to kick me out of the room when _she_ was being born,” he nods at the baby, “and I told them I wasn’t leaving.”

Pythagoras looks momentarily aghast.

“Surely that was inappropriate?” he mutters. “The birthing chamber is no place for a man.”

Jason raises an eyebrow as he takes his daughter back off Hercules, gently rocking her in his arms. The chief midwife has shown him how to hold the baby properly – how to support her head and hold her securely – and he concentrates on getting it just right.

“Why is it inappropriate?” he demands. “It was normal where I come from… Anyway, I told them that I was there at the conception so I was damned well going to be there for the birth.”

Pythagoras sighs and shakes his head. Sometimes he despairs of ever teaching Jason what is acceptable behaviour in Atlantis.

“Where’s Icarus?” Jason asks with a frown. “I thought he would be with you. I haven’t seen much of him lately. Is he alright?”

Pythagoras smiles.

“He is perfectly well,” he responds. “His father needed him. Apparently Daedalus has been working on an improved version of those wings he created and he required Icarus’ help.”

He is surprised when Jason’s frown deepens even further.

“What is it?” he asks. “What is wrong?”

“It is nothing,” Jason replies. “It is just… maybe when it comes time to test the wings, Daedalus should get someone else to do it. Not Icarus I mean. After last time, it might be pushing his luck a bit to try flying again.”

Pythagoras grins.

“Do not worry,” he says. “I have no intention of letting Icarus anywhere near the test flight. Icarus frightened me enough last time and I have no desire to see him fall like that again.”

“Good,” Jason replies.

He looks down at his daughter and can’t keep the smile from forming as a sense of wonderment fills him once more.

“She’s so perfect,” he murmurs, half to himself. “I can’t believe Ariadne and I actually made her.”

“She’s all yours,” Hercules says, his voice uncharacteristically gentle and full of emotion. “Yours and Ariadne’s… and she is going to be _the_ most beautiful and _the_ most precious girl ever… and no man will ever be good enough for her. You’re going to spend half your life wondering how you managed to get lucky enough to have such a lovely daughter and the other half with your sword in your hand, chasing off unsuitable young men who come along to try to steal her away.”

Jason chuckles.

“You sound very sure of that,” he says.

“Oh I am,” Hercules replies, smiling down at the baby. “I am told that’s what all fathers think… especially new ones.” He grins at Jason. “It doesn’t mean it’s not true though.”

“I am sure I will have help chasing away the unsuitable young men though,” Jason states, his eyes dancing. “She is going to have you two keeping an eye on her too, isn’t she?” It is more a statement than a question. “After all, she is going to need someone to teach her about life and love… and _triangles_ … and I cannot think of anyone I would rather have protecting and teaching my daughter.”

“Did you ever think,” Pythagoras begins, “that we would ever be standing here like this? Atlantis at peace; Pasiphae gone forever; you and Ariadne married – King and Queen – with a child of your own; Icarus and I… Sometimes it seems almost too good to be true.”

Jason snorts softly, mindful of the slumbering infant he is holding.

“I didn’t think I’d even be _alive_ by this point,” he points out. “It is good though… It’s perfect.”

The three men lapse into the comfortable silence of old friends; completely relaxed in one another’s company.

Presently, Jason rouses himself.

“I had better get this little one back before Ariadne wakes up and wonders what I’ve done with her baby,” he says.

In the doorway he pauses and looks back over his shoulder at his two closest friends and then behind them to the window and the city beyond. He smiles. From where he is standing the future looks pretty bright indeed.

 


End file.
